


A Fragile Peace

by Russ (Quasar)



Series: Time Heals [17]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasar/pseuds/Russ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working on a kidnapping case for a friend, Jim and Blair try to resolve the misunderstandings of Sentinel, Too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fragile Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Written Spring 1999. Takes place some while after the episode "Sentinel Too, Part Two."

**A FRAGILE PEACE**

Jim pulled his robe tight as he came down the stairs, enjoying the brush of fabric across the fine hairs of his body -- appreciating the gleam of sunlight off the wooden floors of his home -- even reveling in the familiar smell of an algae shake. Ever since he had come out of that Sentinel grotto, the world around him was so vividly beautiful it almost hurt. It was good to be home again. Good to be back to normal. 

Well, almost normal. There still wasn't much furniture in the loft; he had only taken the time to haul up the table and a few chairs from storage in the basement, along with the basic kitchen stuff. But he had several days off, so now would be a good time to take care of the rest of the furniture. It felt good just to think about the exertion, about feeling his muscles flex and really putting his back into some physical work. Sandburg's things were still in boxes; they could get around to unpacking those, too. 

The anthropologist in question was sitting at the metal-topped table, a glass empty of all but green foam at his elbow, poring over some papers and nibbling on a pen. Even Sandburg's apparent frustration was a relief in its own way; he was alive, he was himself, he was normal again. 

Jim finished tying his robe and headed for the kitchen, patting Sandburg's shoulder as he passed. "What's up, Chief? You look pretty grim." 

Blair started. "Oh, hi Jim. I was just trying to figure out my finances for next semester." 

Jim chuckled incredulously, grabbing a jug of orange juice from the fridge. " _Next_ semester? Spring semester is barely finished. Since when do you think that far ahead?" 

"Oh, ha ha," Blair grumbled, but his joking facade quickly dropped away. "I'm going to have to go back to teaching again, since I lost my research assistantship." 

Jim frowned. "Have to? You like teaching, don't you?" 

"I love it. But it takes a lot of time, and the schedule is totally inflexible -- you know, class times, office hours." He sighed. "I guess it's not a problem, though. I mean, you don't really need me at the station, do you?" 

Not liking the sound of those words, Jim pulled the other chair out and sat on it backwards. "Why would you say that?" 

Blair shrugged. "Well, I mean, Simon got his manpower back up. It's not like I don't know he was using your caseload as an excuse to the Chief to extend my ride-along and even get me consultant status. But now Rafe's been in the division a full year, so he's up to speed, and you've got Megan and Joel to take up the slack. So Simon's going to be giving you a lighter load -- especially since you've been stressing out so much lately --" 

Jim stared in disbelief. "What are you saying -- you've been discussing my stress levels with my captain?" 

"No, Jim," Blair sighed with exaggerated patience. "I'm just talking about what I've heard. You know, scuttlebutt." 

"So why haven't _I_ heard any of this?" 

Blair raised his eyebrows eloquently. "I don't know, man -- super hearing doesn't do you much good unless you pay attention to what you hear. Anyway --" He sat back and tossed his pen onto the papers in front of him. "The point is, from now on work isn't going to be as crazy as it was the last couple of years, and you'll have plenty of backup. Megan even knows about your senses now. So all that means that _I_ can take a teaching fellowship to pay my bills." 

Jim cocked his head. "I could float you a few hundred, if money's such a problem." 

"Thanks, man, but a fellowship is more than just a salary. It covers tuition too. Without the research grant, I'm going to have to teach. There's no other answer." 

"What happened to the research money anyway? I thought you said that was good for a couple more years." 

Blair pulled off his glasses and looked up gravely. "I lost the assistantship when I didn't meet my committee's deadline for handing in the first chapter." 

Jim blinked. "But I thought you were going ahead with that. I said you should, after -- you know, after I cooled down and thought about it a little." 

"No, you said I could use the parts that weren't about _you_. Which would be approximately two paragraphs." Blair's voice was tight, his eyes level on Jim -- not quite accusing, but not forgiving, either. "Then later, you said I shouldn't write about you at all." 

"When did I say that?" 

Blair stared. "Last time we were at the station. Don't you remember?" 

Jim shook his head. He remembered the conversation, but he was unclear on the details for that entire week. All he remembered was an overwhelming sense of _wrongness_ that no one else seemed to feel or even understand. 

Blair gave up on expecting a response. "Anyway, I told my committee that I was having trouble getting approval from my research subject, and they were okay with that." 

"Then why did they cut off the money?" 

"Because I had nothing to show for three years of work. If they were _really_ pulling the rug out from under me, I would have been asked to leave the department. This is just sort of like a reprimand -- I get to stay, but I lose my funding." 

Jim gulped at his orange juice. "I'm sorry, Chief. I never meant to cost you your livelihood." 

Blair's gaze slid away, and he swallowed. "It's okay, man, I understand. Anyway, between that and rent, I'm going to need another source of income for the next few months." 

Jim shook his head in confusion. "Rent? Sandburg, you know that was just a joke, in the hospital. I've never asked you for anything but help with the utilities." 

"Yes, I do know, Jim, but I really should be finding my own place to live. That's today's other fun project." Blair grimaced and waved at the newspaper near his elbow. "Too bad that place downstairs is taken already. It's a good time for it, though -- most of the returning students made their arrangements earlier in the Spring, and the incoming students won't be looking for places until August. So it's a buyer's market, at least near the university." 

The words just were not making sense to Jim. "Wait, wait, hang on here, Chief. You _have_ a place to live." Jim waved at the french doors to the small spare room. "I thought this was all settled after we moved your stuff back in. I was going to help you unpack those boxes today." 

Blair sighed. "I don't think that's a good idea, man. It was probably a mistake my staying here so long in the first place." 

Jim gaped. "I don't get it. Is this about me kicking you out? You said you understood all that. You said it was because of Alex threatening my, my . . . territorial imperative." 

"Yeah, exactly, man." Blair leaned forward, suddenly the eager academic again. "You know, I checked into the rental history on that apartment of hers. Did you realize she moved in on April twelfth?" 

"So? What does that have to do with you moving out, or with anything at all?" 

"Jim, does Clayton Falls ring a bell? Do you remember taking a vacation out of the blue? All of a sudden you were suffocating and you had to get out of town -- does that sound familiar to you at all?" 

Jim stared. 

"And, and -- that whole thing with my dissertation. You were acting paranoid because you were reacting to a threat -- a _real_ threat, yes, but one that you hadn't identified yet. So your reactions were all aimed in the wrong direction. Don't you see? Alex being around accounts for a lot of your behavior over the last few months." 

"That doesn't make any sense, Sandburg. If Alex was making me go all . . . paranoid like that, how come all of a sudden I felt so protective of her? How come I . . ." Jim trailed off, unable to describe the erotic visions he'd had of Alex, or his strange attraction to her. 

"You were territorial _before_ you met her. At that point, all you sensed was that another Sentinel was on your turf. After you met her --" 

"I still wanted to kill her. Right up until she --" _killed you_ "-- went to Sierra Verde." 

"Well, that happened right after your second meeting with her. So it didn't kick in right away -- at least, not for you. For her it started a little sooner. Didn't you say she was coming on to you even when she tried to draw you out to the foundry and kill you?" 

Jim still couldn't accept it. "Sandburg, you're acting like I had no free will here, like I was completely controlled by the Sentinel thing." 

"Well, weren't you?" Blair raised his eyebrows, looking eminently reasonable. "Isn't that what you said on the beach in Sierra Verde?" 

Jim remembered that sunrise, and couldn't answer. He knew the woman was a killer, knew the last man she had kissed was on a slab in the morgue, and yet he couldn't shoot at her -- couldn't even stay away from her. 

"Maybe that same thing applies to the way you were acting earlier. The point is, I'm just saying I know what was going on with you, okay?" 

"But you're moving out. That doesn't sound like you're forgiving me." 

Blair looked away. "This isn't about forgiveness or -- or blame. It's about what's right for us, and you. I think it's time for me to move on, don't you?" 

"No!" Jim answered sharply. "No, I don't. You're my partner, Sandburg. I thought we were together on this." 

Blair rubbed his forehead. "I knew this wasn't going to be easy," he muttered to himself. "Jim, just . . . take a second to look at what's going on. I mean, what am I really doing here anyway?" 

"You said every Sentinel needs a partner -- a Guide," Jim put in, relieved to be able to fight back with Sandburg's own words. 

"That was two and a half years ago. Face it, Jim, you've got all the control you need. You haven't zoned out in over two months. The only trouble you've had with your senses lately was because of Alex, and I seriously dropped the ball on that one. Who helped you in Sierra Verde?" 

"You did. You, and Simon and Megan --" 

"No, you're missing the point here. Who _guided_ you? Who led you to the Temple of Light when I was, like, terminally two steps behind? Who told you what to do when I was dead?" 

Jim shivered at the memory of Blair lying gray-faced on sunlit grass. 

"Incacha." Blair answered his own questions. "See, I missed what was going on here. I didn't get it until I thought about how you got through that experience in the grotto all by yourself, without me to guide you." 

Jim shook his head, not liking where this was heading. "Sandburg, I \--" 

"You _have_ a Guide, man. He's dead, and that means he can't be hurt, and he doesn't need a place to live, and he never gets left behind. You don't need me, man." 

"No. No, you're wrong." Jim tried to stifle a swell of terror in his chest. 

"Come on, Jim, you said it yourself back at the station, but I was too stubborn to admit it. But you totally proved it at the grotto, when you were smart enough not to go back in the water again. And then you were telling Alex about what it means to be a Sentinel. You have your own sense of self -- you don't need me around to tell you who you are or how to be. It's time for you to leave the nest, man. And it's time for me to let you go." 

Jim surged to his feet, looming over the seated man. "This is your way of punishing me, isn't it? You parrot my words back at me, you do this emotional blackmail bullshit --" 

Blair's eyes widened. "Hey, whoa, hold on there --" He held up his hands in a T. 

"Fine. If you want out, Sandburg, get out. I hope you like your new place." Jim stormed off to the bathroom. 

While he was in the shower, the Sentinel heard his roommate moving around the kitchen -- felt the minute change in the water temperature as Blair rinsed out his algae mug and the blender -- felt the slight vibration through his feet as the door slammed. So Sandburg was gone, presumably to check out available apartments. Jim refused to let himself care. 

He lathered his face and drew the razor across it in short, angry strokes. Sandburg could deny it all he wanted, but this was obviously the Jewish guilt routine being applied. Jim had no intention of caving; Sandburg would have to talk himself out of the sulks, because Jim wasn't going to do it for him. 

Jim blinked stupidly at the mirror as the foam on the right side of his face began to turn pink. He hadn't even felt that. 

And then, abruptly, it was all he _could_ feel. He dropped his razor, clinging to the sink as tearing agony echoed right down to his toes. It felt as if he'd just taken a bullet through his cheek. For a moment, he wondered if some sniper could have gotten him through the tiny bathroom window. He couldn't straighten enough to see the mirror. 

Without thinking, Jim reached out for his anchor, his Guide -- something to focus on. As clearly as if the sound came from next door, he heard Sandburg on the street below, talking to someone. A feminine voice answered more indistinctly. Trust Blair to find a woman to flirt with just seconds after walking out the door. 

Then the pain was gone, as quickly as it had started. 

Jim finished shaving with more care, his jaw completely numb to the sharp edge that scraped across it and his hands hardly more sensitive. Rinsing his face, he tried to zoom in on the mirror to see if the cut was clean. The foggy surface blurred and cleared irregularly. Jim had to blink and rub his eyes several times before he could see properly again. 

Apparently that grotto wasn't all it was cracked up to be, when it came to controlling his senses. 

Since the cut had already stopped bleeding, Jim decided to leave it alone. He pulled his robe on over half-dry skin and headed up to his room to dress. 

He was still buttoning his shirt when the door to the loft opened. He groaned out loud. "What did you forget this time, Sandburg?" he called as he started down the stairs. "I know you took the classifieds out of the paper --" He trailed off. 

Blair was standing just inside the door to the loft, but behind him was another figure. "Hey, Jim," he said cautiously. "Look who I bumped into." His eyes held a clear warning: _Let's not air dirty laundry in public._ "You remember Serena Chang, don't you?" 

The woman came all the way into the loft. "Actually, it's Baxter, again." Her thick mane of hair, usually neatly pulled back or piled in some complex array on top of her head, was tumbling in tangles around her face. She wore no make-up, and her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken with exhaustion. 

_Somebody's having a worse day than we are,_ Jim thought as he descended the last few steps. "Hi, Serena. Haven't seen you in a while." 

She made a weak attempt at a smile. "Hi, Jim." Her tired eyes widened as she looked around. "What happened to your place?" 

Blair gulped. "Oh. Uh, Jim was having the floors done. We just started moving the furniture back in." 

Jim winced as Serena glanced down at the scratched wooden floor. She was a forensics tech, a sharper observer than most detectives; she would recognize the lie at once. But apparently she was either too polite or too distracted to comment. 

"I . . . uh, I tried to call you last week," Serena said, "but Rafe told me you were out of town." She glanced at Blair, and Jim could guess what other things she must have heard. 

"Out of town," he repeated. "You could say that." _Out of town, off the continent, and not entirely in my right mind._

"I thought you were living in Seattle now," Jim said mildly. "What brings you back to Cascade?" 

Serena swallowed noisily, her light-brown complexion paling to a grayish shade. "I came to see you. Jim . . . I'm hoping you can help me. I really -- I just don't know where else to turn." 

Blair laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Serena's son was kidnapped," he explained. 

Jim clamped down on his sympathetic instincts. "Kidnapping is a federal matter. Have you notified the authorities?" 

Serena nodded. "The FBI checked into it, but there's not much they can do. Even they suggested I'd be better off looking for private help." 

Jim frowned. "It doesn't sound like they're taking it very seriously." 

"They're not. It's what they call a domestic kidnapping." Serena sniffed. "Trevor was taken by my ex-husband." She ducked her head, struggling for control. 

"Hey, Serena, why don't you come in and sit down?" Blair urged in a soothing voice. "This explanation could take a while." 

Jim glared at his partner's assumption that he would _want_ to hear the explanation of something that shouldn't really be any of his business -- but he couldn't turn down a former colleague crying on his doorstep. She was asking for his help, after all. He pulled one of the chairs away from the table for Serena to sit in, while he took the other. 

"Let me get this straight," Jim said. "Your ex-husband has kidnapped your son?" 

"Yes," she gulped. 

"Did he . . . disagree with the custody arrangements?" 

"Sort of. It's complicated." She wiped at her cheeks with a sodden tissue. 

"How old is the boy?" 

"About a year and a half." 

Jim winced. "Do you have reason to believe your ex-husband would endanger him?" 

"Not deliberately. But Jason is -- oh, God!" she gasped. "He's ill. He must have stopped taking his medications. He's not thinking straight." 

Blair, who had been banging around the kitchen and muttering to himself, brought Serena a roll of toilet paper. "Sorry, the tissues are packed away somewhere," he told her. "Just take your time and give us the whole story." 

She nodded and blew her nose. 

Blair looked up at Jim. "Jason Chang is bipolar," he said. 

Jim blinked, not getting that at all. 

"It used to be called manic depressive," Serena mumbled through the paper. 

Jim nodded his understanding. "And you said he quit his medications?" 

"He must have. I don't have any proof, because I'm not living with him anymore. He managed to convince the doctor he was taking them." 

"Let me guess," Jim said grimly. "The custody arrangements hinge on his being compliant with the meds?" 

"Yes! But Jason thinks -- he thinks . . ." Serena had to stop and swallow hard. 

Blair slid a mug of tea in front of her. "Here, drink this. It'll help calm you down. Take your time. You can start from the beginning, if it will help." 

Jim shifted impatiently, but recognized that Blair was having more success at calming Serena than he had. Eventually, that would be the fastest way to find out what was going on. 

Serena gulped at the pale concoction. "Jason . . ." she sniffed. "Well, the beginning would be that Jason and I were high school sweethearts." She smiled sadly. "He was always artistic and moody. I thought it was romantic. When he was shining, everyone wanted to be near him. He was president of the drama club, captain of the debate team -- he could set people on fire with his words. But then sometimes he would just slump." 

"Depressive episodes," Blair interpreted. 

"Yes. But we didn't call it that at the time. I thought it was just . . . family trouble or something. Everybody fought with their parents -- it was normal for teenagers. Then in our senior year, Jason didn't get accepted to the college he wanted. He went into this horrible depression. He said he was going to kill himself." 

"Did he make an attempt?" Blair asked, coaxing her along. 

"No. I told his parents what he was planning, and they had him hospitalized. It was all a big secret. I didn't think they were giving him the help he needed, but what could I do? When he got out of the hospital he wouldn't see me anymore. He said I'd betrayed his confidence. Then we went off to different colleges and that was that." 

"So you didn't see him for a while?" 

"Not for years. Then I met him again, about three years ago, here in Cascade. A grown man with a steady job -- he's an architect. And he was so stable, so sure of himself. He told me about the trouble he'd had in college before he was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He really scraped bottom, but once he got treatment he did much better and he was able to finish his degree. He thanked me for stopping him, back in high school." 

"So you started seeing each other again," Blair guessed. 

"Yes. He's really a wonderful man, underneath the mood swings. They just make him harder to live with." She drew another strip of tissue to wipe her nose before she continued. "Well, so we were a little careless one time, and Trevor came along. Jason was so insistent that we should get married -- especially when we found out it was a boy. He said it was important for a boy to have a father in his life." 

Jim glanced at his partner, who had gone very still. 

"So just before Trevor was born, I said yes, and we got married. It was wonderful, for a while." 

"Is that when Jason stopped taking the medication?" Blair asked. 

She nodded. "You see, he's an artist. He paints and writes poetry, in addition to his architectural design work. He's a very creative person." 

Blair sat back, comprehension lighting his face. "And he probably thought that the medications were stifling his creativity." 

"Yes, exactly! How did you know?" She looked up in astonishment. 

Blair shrugged. "I've read some studies on it. They showed that some artists were much more prolific during manic episodes, although there was some question as to whether the _quality_ of their work was as good as when they were stable or neutral." 

"Wasn't that painter manic depressive?" Jim asked suddenly. "The guy who cut off his ear?" 

"Van Gogh." Blair nodded. "One summer he did something like two hundred paintings. But he was also prone to severe depression as well -- that was where the ear thing came in." 

Serena smiled sadly. "Well, Jason isn't quite that bad. The medication had side effects that he really hated, but I also think he missed the . . . the rush he got during his manic episodes. I think he started cutting down on the medication, first, instead of just quitting it. It started gradually, but looking back -- I can't believe I didn't see the pattern. There would be times when he would stay up most of the night for a week or more, just writing and sketching and planning -- hours on end. He wouldn't even want to stop to eat. He would submit his poetry to publishers, send photos to galleries, take his building designs to contractors that hadn't even solicited them. And the rejections would come in just about the time he was coming back to earth anyway. All that work he had done -- it just wasn't any good. Or maybe he was just presenting it the wrong way, or something. But Jason couldn't take it. After a week of no sleep, suddenly he would stay in bed for days on end. He had to be forced to eat. He needed someone to watch out for him full time. I couldn't live like that." 

"Not and take care of a baby, no," Blair said sympathetically. 

"Right. I had to think of me and Trevor. I _tried_ to persuade Jason to go back on his medications, and at first he agreed with me -- but the side effects would drive him up the wall and then he would lapse again. So we separated. And when I found out how much better my life was, even on my own with a baby, I decided to make the divorce formal." 

"What were the custody arrangements?" Jim asked. 

"Trevor stays with me most of the time. The judge gave Jason visitation rights and every other weekend -- as long as he was taking his medication." 

"But you think he stopped." 

"There's no one there to make sure he swallows the pills. He's buying them on a regular schedule, and the doctor thinks nothing is wrong, but \--" She swallowed hard. "But Trevor is _gone_!" 

Jim leaned forward. "Can you tell me how that happened?" 

"I went to pick up Trevor at Day Care on Friday -- a week and a half ago -- and they said Jason had already picked him up. It was supposed to be his weekend to take Trevor, but he was early. So I went to his apartment to find out what was going on, and Jason had left. There was a suitcase missing. And the neighbors said Jason had been playing music all day and night for about three days." 

"Sounds like the start of a manic episode," Blair concluded. 

"That's what I thought. So I called the Seattle PD, and they called the FBI . . . all my friends have been working this case around the clock. But we haven't found anything." 

"Serena . . ." Jim considered his words carefully. "I don't want to alarm you, but are you sure it was Jason that did all this? Is it possible someone else abducted him _and_ Trevor?" 

"Oh, god." She pressed a hand to her mouth, but behind her terror she was still thinking. After a moment, she shook her head. "Jason showed up at the Day Care alone. They know him there because he would spend his lunches with Trevor sometimes. And in the apartment -- it looked like he had packed in a hurry, but there was no sign of a struggle. And I'm sure it was _Jason_ who did the packing. I mean, I know the way he chooses his socks." 

Jim smiled at the joke. "But why would he want to take Trevor? Did he really disagree with the joint custody so much?" 

"Not really, although he wasn't completely happy about it. But I think it must have been the manic episode that set him off." 

"Bipolar disorder doesn't change a person's fundamental values, though," Blair put in. 

"No -- but with Jason, he would always be much more forceful in his opinions when he was manic, and sort of apathetic when he was down. Same opinions, but . . . different expression." 

"So his disagreement with the custody got more extreme," Blair said. 

"I think that's what happened. Also, when he's hyper like that, Jason almost thinks he can do anything. He would really _believe_ he can get away with this, and raise Trevor on his own. Actually --" She struggled to produce a smile "-- you almost _have_ to be manic to keep up with Trevor." 

"This does sound like a serious breach of the custody agreement," Jim said slowly, "but are you sure it's a kidnapping? Won't Jason just bring the boy back when he comes down off his high and realizes it won't work? Then you can bring him up on charges, get a judge to re-write the custody ruling, whatever." 

Serena nodded, her eyes filling. "That's what the FBI thinks -- it's why they more or less handed the case over to SPD. But they don't understand \-- when Jason comes down from one of these episodes, it's so sudden. And then he gets so low he can hardly feed and dress _himself,_ much less a baby boy. I'm afraid he won't have time to bring Trevor back before he crashes." 

Blair sat up a little straighter. "How long do Jason's manic episodes usually last? You said a week?" 

"Actually, you can never tell. At least not usually. His last three episodes were all about the same length -- just under two weeks. But that could have been a coincidence." 

"And from what the neighbors said, you think this one started, what, a week before last Wednesday?" 

"That would be the fourteenth, Chief," Jim calculated. He stiffened as he realized that was the day he had kicked Blair out. Had everything that happened since then really occurred in less than two weeks? 

Blair was still figuring, apparently unaffected by recent history. "So he could be coming down anytime?" 

Serena was crying outright now. "He may have crashed days ago. That's what I'm afraid of. I have to find them _now_. Jim --" She appealed to the detective. "I've seen you work. I remember last year, when you found that little girl who'd been kidnapped. I thought at the time that those parents were so lucky to have you working on their case . . ." Her voice failed. 

Jim awkwardly patted the hand that had been extended toward him. "Serena, there wasn't any magic in that. Just ordinary police work. The Seattle PD knows their turf better --" 

Serena was shaking her head. "Jim, you _know_ things. You find clues that no one else catches, not even a full forensics team. I've seen you do it. I just know you can find something that the others missed." She pulled her purse around suddenly. "I can pay --" 

"No. No, Serena, keep your money. I'm your friend, not a private investigator." Jim hesitated, meeting his partner's gaze. 

Blair's mouth moved soundlessly, the words clear. _C'mon, man, we have to help._

"All right," he told both pairs of anxious eyes. "I've got a few days off anyway. I'll check it out, Serena. See what I can find." 

"Oh, thank you!" she sobbed. "Here, I kept copies of all the file details \--" She pulled a battered police file folder from her purse. She started listing the basics of the case as quickly as she could speak. 

Jim accepted the folder with a heavy heart. He knew how poor the statistics were on finding kidnapped children -- and that was without a deadline of a few days to work in. If Trevor's life really did depend on their finding him soon, his chances were pretty poor. 

* * *

Blair hurried to catch up with Jim before the Sentinel actually got the truck started. _Great. Just what Jim needs -- me falling behind again,_ he thought as he shrugged into his jacket. It was a sunny day, and warm for Cascade, but ever since he'd drowned Blair hadn't felt warm all the way through except for their few days in Sierra Verde. Even then, it was only hot near the coast -- the inland mountains were as wet and chilly as anything the Pacific Northwest had to offer. 

When he got outside, Blair found Jim standing by the open door to his truck, staring into space. He paused uncertainly. Jim wasn't zoning, was he? He hadn't done that in a long time. 

"Jim?" He called softly over the hood of the truck. "You okay, man?" 

The Sentinel blinked, responding too quickly to be coming out of a zone. "I'm fine. You sure you want to come to Seattle with me? It'll take a lot of time away from your apartment hunting." 

Blair winced at the reminder as he climbed into the truck. "This is more important. We're helping out a friend." 

Jim shrugged and got in the driver's seat. "Your funeral, Chief, if all the good places get snapped up before you get there." 

_My funeral. Just what I wanted to think about._ Blair was preparing a sarcastic reply when he noticed Jim's flinch at the rasp of the starter turning over. 

"Jim, are you sure you're all right?" 

"I said I'm fine," Jim growled. "Just a little . . . oversensitive, that's all. Nothing I can't deal with." 

"Okay," Blair said slowly, biting back suggestions about sensory dials; Jim knew all that stuff already. He looked for another topic. "So, uh . . . that's really sad, isn't it -- what Serena's going through." 

"I guess," Jim grunted. 

"I mean first the guy dumps her because she kept him from killing himself, then years later they get together again -- looks like a happy ending, but that goes sour, too. Like divorce isn't bad enough without fighting over a kid." 

"What do you know about divorce anyway, Sandburg?" Jim kept his eyes on the road as he pulled onto the interstate. 

Blair frowned, unsure what to make of the detective's flat tone. "Well, I remember how hard it hit Simon. And I can see how miserable Serena is. She's really worried about her kid -- about both of them." 

"Could you can the sob story routine for a while?" _That_ was definitely a hostile tone. 

Blare stared at the older man. "What?" 

"You're overdoing the drama, Sandburg. You need to get a little distance and quit reacting to everything like it's a world crisis." 

"Jim, we're talking about a friend here. I don't know about you, but I _care_ about my friends." Blair's eyes narrowed. "Or is that the problem?" 

"I don't have a _problem_." 

"Oh, no, you just get all prickly whenever I show the least concern for another person. Don't you think you're carrying this jealousy thing a little too far?" 

"Jealousy! Sandburg, you're crazy. How the hell did we get from your soft heart to me being jealous?" 

"Because you always do this, man. Any time I speak to a woman." 

"Chief, we've been over this ground before. I really don't want to hear it again." 

"Well, too bad, man, because I have had it up to _here_ with the paranoid way you react every time I --" Blair broke off with a gasp as Jim braked hard. 

Jim pulled over to the shoulder, ignoring the honk of the car behind him as it swerved into the left lane. "I _said_ , I don't want to hear it. Now you can either leave it alone, or get out right now and walk." 

Blair gaped at him, astonished at how quickly this had blown up. "You . . . what?" 

"Change the subject or take a hike, Sandburg. Which will it be?" 

"I am _not_ walking home." This was a little too much like being kicked out of the loft, which had _not_ been one of the high points of Blair's life. 

"Then you're not going to call me jealous anymore, right?" 

Blair looked away, trying to control his anger. There were a lot of things he'd like to call Jim at the moment, but starting a fight with his partner wouldn't help Serena any. 

Apparently satisfied that he had made his point, Jim flicked on the turn signal and twisted to see if it was clear to pull back onto the highway. 

Blair realized that something was wrong when a shudder went through the Sentinel that could be felt on the other side of the truck. 

After that, Jim just sat there -- motionless, but too tense for a zone-out. 

Blair reached carefully past the steering wheel to kill the turn signal. He started to put a hand on Jim's shoulder, then pulled back. He had tried to be careful about how he touched his partner ever since the whole sex thing earlier in the Spring had sent Jim running off to Clayton Falls -- 

_No, that was because of Alex, not me,_ he realized suddenly. He had already figured that out, but he'd never really put it together like that before. 

Still, he didn't want to push any more of Jim's buttons than he already had. He placed a hand carefully over the white-knuckled fist on the steering wheel. It was skin against skin, enough to bring the Sentinel out of a zone without violating his personal space too badly. 

"Jim. Are you okay, man? Concentrate on my voice." 

"The light comes from within," Jim murmured, which was weird, but at least it was a reaction. But he just kept staring off into space. 

"Jim, look at me. Come on." Blair rubbed Jim's hand gently, feeling it relax a little. 

The Sentinel turned his head mechanically. 

"Is it another vision?" Blair asked. 

"No . . . an old one. From the grotto." 

Blair's mind raced. A flashback? Was this a Sentinel thing, or a reaction to the concoction Alex had forced down Jim's throat? Blair remembered having a couple of flashbacks after the Golden incident -- only a few seconds each time, but they were not pleasant. Cautiously, he asked, "What did you see?" 

"Death. Death everywhere. Explosions, gunshots . . . people falling and dying." 

That definitely sounded like a bad trip, especially for a tribal protector. Releasing his seatbelt, Blair twisted on the seat so he could face Jim fully, pulling the hand from the steering wheel to cradle between both of his own. "Jim, look at me. No one is dead. We're fine here, okay? We're home now, and the grotto's a long way away." 

Jim nodded slowly. 

"What was that you said about light?" 

"Something Incacha told me. He said the darkness would flee from the light, but the light had to come from within." 

Blair bit his lip. He had no clue what was going on here -- he'd been way out of his depth for a couple of months now -- but maybe Incacha's words could guide them both. "That's not a problem, Jim. You have plenty of light inside you." 

"No," Jim breathed. "Not me. You." His hand squirmed free of Blair's hold, reaching out to press against the younger man's chest. 

Blair gulped, suddenly aware of his own heartbeat. Jim had heard it at the fountain, when everyone else had given up -- had he been listening to it ever since? 

Jim blinked, then shook his head dazedly, hand falling to his lap. He glanced around. "What . . . ?" 

"Something set you off, and you had a flashback to the temple," Blair reminded him. 

Jim shook his head and waved a hand impatiently. Apparently he knew that part, but something else was puzzling him. "My headache's gone." 

Blair's eyebrows went up. A headache? _And I never noticed anything. Damn. Dropped the ball again, Sandburg._ Of course Jim was snappish if his head was hurting. Not to mention the small matter of the _last_ woman Blair had talked to without Jim's knowledge. No wonder the man didn't want to admit to jealousy. 

"Do you want me to drive?" Blair offered tentatively. 

"No, I'm good . . ." Jim froze, looking at something in his mirror. "Aw, hell." 

Blair glanced back down the road to see a State Police cruiser crunching onto the gravel behind them. "Oops," he said. 

"Get your seatbelt back on, Sandburg." 

"Don't worry, man, this won't be a problem." Blair smiled at the officer that stepped up next to Jim's window. 

Jim rolled down the window with a grimace, reaching for his wallet. 

"Hi," Blair began. 

"Is there a problem here?" the patrolman asked through mirrored shades. 

"Ah, no, I just dropped my keys, see, and they went under the seat. I asked Jim to pull over so I could take off my seatbelt and dig them out, and here they are!" Blair flourished his keys. 

Jim opened his wallet to show his badge. 

"Oh, Detective Ellison, sorry I didn't recognize your vehicle," said the patrolman. "We were just wondering if you had some engine trouble." 

"No, no problem," Jim said wearily. 

"Fine. I'll let you be on your way, then." 

Blair was feeling a little overlooked. A single flash of Jim's badge had gotten them more consideration than his clever story. 

Then the patrolman leaned in and smiled at Blair. "Good to see you looking so well, Mr. Sandburg. Don't forget to put your belt back on." And he was gone. 

Blair gaped. 

Jim shrugged. "Simon mentioned something about it being a big story in the papers, but we were already out of the country by then." 

Blair made a mental note to check out the papers for the past two weeks in the library. 

Jim pulled out onto the highway again, with the cruiser running behind them for a minute before pulling ahead. 

Blair watched his partner intently. "Jim, do you know what set off that flashback?" 

Jim's hands tightened on the wheel. "It was -- sunlight. Flashing off a windshield. Like an explosion." 

Blair frowned. It sounded like Jim really _was_ hypersensitive today. But wasn't the grotto supposed to have improved his control? "What happened in that temple, anyway? Afterward, you said you felt like you had all the answers, but just now . . ." 

Jim frowned. "The visions were disturbing. Confusing. I couldn't make sense out of them. But when I got out of the water, I felt like there was something there. I just . . . couldn't hold onto it." 

Blair nodded slowly. "You couldn't remember _how_ you reached your understanding, so once it was gone you couldn't reconstruct it." 

"Something like that." 

"Have your senses been acting up ever since the grotto?" 

"No, they were just stronger at first. They were in control until --" Jim swallowed. "Just recently." 

Blair pondered that for a while. Perhaps regular visits to the grotto were necessary. Perhaps it was like a drug withdrawal. Perhaps the drink Alex gave him was only fully wearing off now. "Okay, well . . . let me know if you have any more trouble." 

"Why?" Jim said bitterly. "I thought you said I didn't need you anymore." 

Uh-oh. Jim really must not have liked that if he was throwing it back in Blair's face. "I didn't mean it like that, man. Anytime you _do_ need me, I'm ready to help you out." Blair looked down at his hands, lying loose in his lap. "You could try asking for Incacha's help, too." 

"He's not a dog, Sandburg -- he doesn't come when I call him," Jim growled. 

"Have you tried?" 

There was a long pause. "Only once, in the grotto. He appeared, but what he said didn't help." 

"Well, try it tonight before you go to sleep. Just close your eyes and reach out. You might have another vision that will give you the answers." 

Jim just pinched at the bridge of his nose. After a moment, he said, "Why don't you get out that file Serena gave us? See what SPD found out already." 

For the rest of the two-hour drive, they went over everything Serena's colleagues had checked out during the past week and a half. The work had been very thorough, but there wasn't much to find. 

"So, from the interviews with the neighbors in Jason's building," Blair summed up, "all we have is that he started playing music continuously from Wednesday evening onward, and one person saw him bring Trevor home on Friday." 

"But no one saw him packing the car or leaving," Jim added. 

"Right. So maybe he left at night or something?" 

"Serena was there before then. It could have just been when everyone was eating dinner. What else is in there besides interviews?" 

"Forensics on the apartment." Blair flipped through sheet after sheet of negative results. "Okay, here we go. There was a receipt in the trash from a grocery store. On Thursday -- the day before he took Trevor \-- he bought . . . hmm. Baby formula. Apple juice. Five, seven, ten cans of soup. Diapers. Bread. Peanut butter. More diapers. Lots of diapers. Condensed milk." 

" _Condensed_?" Jim broke in. 

"That's what it says, man." 

"Why would he buy that?" 

"Beats me. What else . . . some bananas, crackers, potato chips, cookies, and . . . huh. A state map. Think that means something?" 

"Could have been an impulse, if they had a rack of maps in the checkout line or something." 

"I guess." Blair turned another page. "Oh, here's Serena's list of what she thinks was missing from the apartment. Lots of baby stuff -- sounds like supplies for more than just a week or two. As for what Jason packed . . . it looks like he was going casual. Jeans, sweaters, leather jacket." 

"Dressing pretty warmly," Jim commented. 

"Road trip to Alaska?" Blair joked, continuing through the file. "Ooh \-- credit card report. No, nothing there. He used it Friday morning, and nothing since then. But he _did_ take a big wad of cash from a bank machine." 

"So he was planning ahead. He knew we'd follow the credit card trail." 

"Yeah. But at least that shows he was thinking halfway clearly. I mean, if he was smart enough to use cash, and buy all that stuff for the baby ahead of time . . . well, then he should have the brains to look after the kid, right?" 

"For a while, at least. But we can also use that to prove premeditation." 

"Sure, Jim. Worry about the court case after we get Trevor back, okay?" 

Jim shrugged. "Anyway, the cash gives us something to work with." 

Blair frowned. "How? I mean, it's _cash_. Even _I_ don't buy that X-Files conspiracy stuff about the government tracing people through the magnetic strips in twenty-dollar bills." 

"It's cash, but he only had so much of it, right? The limit on those machines is two hundred bucks." 

"Um . . . yep. That was how much he took out." 

"So that's how much he had to buy gas and food and so on." 

"He gassed the car up on Friday morning -- that was the last time he used the credit card. And none of the food from the grocery receipt was in the apartment, so they took all that with them." 

"Yeah, but still, I bet they stopped at restaurants, and a kid can be pretty expensive. And Chang's on an impulsive sort of high, right? He could be going through that money pretty fast. If he hasn't run out of cash yet, that says to me he couldn't have gone far. We know he didn't cross the Canadian border, or they would have recorded his license. You said he bought a state road map? I bet he's still in Washington." 

"Great," Blair muttered. "Only a whole _state_ to hide in. That really narrows it down, Jim." 

"So we have to find something else to add to what we have. But keep that in mind, Chief. He didn't go too far." 

They found Jason Chang's apartment building without too much trouble and used the key Serena had given them. Looking around the small studio, Jim grimaced. 

"Forensics really did a number on this place. All I can smell is fingerprint powder." 

"That's a familiar scent, Jim. Just put it in the background." 

"Yeah, Sarge, I know the drill." But the detective still had a distasteful expression as he wandered around. 

"Jim, what about this?" Blair waved at a notepad by the phone. The top sheet was blank. "Can you get anything?" 

Jim tilted the pad to the light and brushed his fingers across it. "There's too many impressions," he said. "The paper is so thin . . . I must be seeing what was written on the last three or four pages, all jumbled together." 

"Can you make out _any_ of it?" 

"Phone numbers." 

"Well, write them down and we'll check 'em out!" 

Jim sighed gustily and read off the numbers he could make out. "There's another one scrawled diagonally here, but I can't get it. It cuts right across the rest of the stuff. It's long distance, though \-- area code 360." 

"That could be anywhere in the western half of the state." 

"Anywhere _except_ Seattle or Cascade." 

"Well, does it have a name next to it, or above it?" 

"Uh . . . I can only get part. C, L, E . . . D, then maybe N or W?" 

Blair considered the letters. "It doesn't say anything to me. I'll write it down anyway." 

Jim dropped the pad and prowled around the rest of the apartment. 

"You getting anything else?" 

Jim shook his head. "Forensics was pretty thorough. They went through the trash, they checked the couch cushions . . . do you smell that?" 

Blair bit back a sarcastic reply and asked patiently, "What do you smell?" 

"It's like . . . wax." 

"Like a candle?" Blair looked around. There was a candle in the window, but it was a fancy decorative thing that had never been lit. 

"No, more like . . . I don't know, it reminds me of something." Jim pulled open a closet door. "Stronger in here." Casting around, he pulled down a hand-held iron from the top shelf. He swiped a finger across the teflon surface. "Wax." 

"He had wax on his clothes?" 

"No, too much. He was using the iron to melt the wax. Maybe to spread it on something." 

Blair's eyebrows went up. "Oookay. Why?" 

"I don't know, Chief." Jim turned away from the closet and frowned at something else. 

"What is it?" Blair backed up and looked futilely in the same direction. 

"On the floor by the door . . ." Jim crouched down to retrieve a tiny bit of fluff. "Down," he said. 

"What, like there was a duck in here or something?" 

Jim shot him a disgusted look. "It's the kind that's used as a filling." 

"Like from a pillow?" 

"Or a down-filled coat." 

"Not many people wear those nowadays, Jim. Especially not in May. Anyway, Serena said he took his leather jacket, remember?" 

Jim shrugged and picked up something else. "Pine needles." 

It seemed pretty thin to Blair. "I don't know, man. It's right by the door. Anyone could've tracked those in. Even the forensics people." 

Jim shook his head. "They're . . . dry. More than a year old, I think." 

"So what does it mean?" 

"I don't know," said the detective shortly, and headed off to investigate the kitchen. 

* * *

Jim sighed and rubbed at a crick in his neck. This was getting them nowhere. "Okay, Chief, we've found everything we can. Time to head home." 

Blair glared at him. "Jim, we haven't checked out --" 

"SPD did everything. There's no point in re-interviewing the neighbors. It would take hours, and we're not going to find anything new." 

"You can't be _sure_ of that, man!" 

"I'm sure enough. Now let's go." Jim stalked out of the building, wincing at the brightness outside. At least there were some clouds around now to take the edge off the intensity. 

Blair followed him to the truck. "You know, Jim, I really hate it when you do that to me." 

"Do what?" Jim pulled out of the apartment building's lot. 

"Make unilateral decisions like that." 

"I'm the detective here, Sandburg." 

"Well, you don't have to just walk away and ignore what I'm saying!" 

"Look, do you want to get home in time for dinner, or not?" 

Blair seemed to deflate abruptly. "Yeah, right. Home," he muttered bitterly. 

Jim frowned at this unexpected capitulation. "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing, man. Just forget it." 

Jim would have been happy to do just that, but the interstate didn't offer a lot to distract him from the despondent profile in the passenger seat. Looking back over the conversation, he didn't have to think long before he figured out it was the word 'home' giving Sandburg trouble. He sighed. "Are you still on this moving-out kick of yours?" 

Blair scowled. "You make it sound like some impulse. This is not something I came up with a couple hours ago -- I've been thinking it might be a good idea for over a month now." 

"Oh, please," Jim spat. "You're trying to get back at me for kicking you out two weeks ago." 

"I'm not! Jim --" 

"You say it was because of Alex," Jim overrode him. "You say you _understand_. But really you're just trying to make me feel bad." 

"Jim, there's more going on --" 

Jim interrupted again. "Has it occurred to you, Chief, that maybe I already feel bad about that? I know it was a shitty thing to do, and I'm not even sure why I did it. Maybe it was that territorial thing you were talking about, because I sure as hell don't understand it. I just wish you'd quit pretending to be all forgiving about it, when you keep throwing it in my face." 

"That's not what I'm doing!" Blair's protest was loud enough to reverberate in the confined space. 

"Then what is this all about, if you aren't trying to punish me?" 

"All right, dammit! You want the truth? The truth is, not everything has to be about you, man! This isn't punishment -- this is me protecting myself!" 

Jim gaped. "Protecting? Sandburg, you know I'd never hurt --" 

"Too late, man. You already did." Blair jerked a thumb over his shoulder as if he could point to the past. "You went totally non-rational on me back there. You refused to listen to me or tell me what was going on, you kicked me out . . . even after we knew what was going on, you still wouldn't listen. You said you didn't need me." Tearing his gaze away from Jim, Blair stared out the window. 

Jim could only afford brief glances at Blair, but he was surprised at the pain he saw in his partner's tight-pressed lips and nervous hands. "Chief, you know I didn't mean that. It wasn't me talking, it was -- this instinct I had, to push everyone away." 

"Yeah, I know. But see, that's the thing," Blair continued, running swift fingers through his hair. "We've dealt with you having weird reactions to people before, but every time, once we figured out what was going on, your rational mind won out. You did the right thing. But this -- this was different. Your reaction to Alex was, like, off the end of the scale. First you hated her, then you loved her . . . totally irrational, both ways. And nothing I did would make you listen." 

Jim swallowed. "Sandburg --" 

"And that's not your fault, man, I swear I'm not blaming you. But I don't think I can face something like that again. I mean, this . . . I never saw it coming, and I should have. It just blindsided me, and I had no clue what was going on." His voice dropped, winding down like a clockwork toy. "And I don't want that to happen again." 

"It's not _going_ to happen again, Chief. Alex is gone." 

"It's not just Alex, it's the whole thing. Ever since you got out of the hospital, after Bryant shot you, I felt like I wasn't really helping you at all. I was like a fifth wheel. And then when Alex came along, I was worse than useless. I just made everything worse." 

He met Jim's eyes briefly, his face open and vulnerable. Then their gazes broke as Jim had to turn back to the road. 

"So that's why I have to get out, man. You don't need me anymore, and if I keep butting in I'm just going to get hurt again." 

Jim opened his mouth to protest, but the words 'hurt again' seemed to echo through his brain. He remembered images of Blair gagged, Blair shot, Blair being tumbled by an explosion . . . Blair dripping, cold and lifeless. 

If Blair stuck around, it was pretty well guaranteed that he _would_ be hurt again, judging from their past history. He would be better off staying away from Jim entirely. And if the only way to keep him away was to let him go on feeling unneeded . . . maybe that wasn't such a high price to pay. 

Unneeded and unwanted -- that was what came through in Blair's voice. He had said it went right back to the end of the Bryant case. Jim swallowed, wondering if it was the sex thing. He knew that Blair had been expecting something more from their brief encounters. It would have been easy to fall into a relationship, if Jim hadn't landed in the hospital first. But that ease itself was unnerving. Jim had never _wanted_ to be in a relationship with a man. 

Then there was the fact that both times they had gotten intimate, Blair had come off worse in the encounter -- Jim had essentially forced him the second time, and he still wasn't sure he believed Blair's assertion that the younger man could have stopped him at any time. All things considered, Jim had been more than glad to let the whole thing drop. 

"Okay," he said at last. "It has to be your decision, Chief. I can't force you to stay." 

From the corner of his eye, he caught the minute sagging of Blair's shoulders, but the anthropologist didn't answer. 

They were silent for a while. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds in the west, and a number of the drivers on the road thought the half-light was a good excuse to use their high beams. Eventually Jim's headache got to be too much. 

"Hey." He tried for a light tone. "Did you mean it when you offered to drive, earlier?" 

Blair's head turned to stare at him. "Uh, sure. You're not going to take me up on it, are you?" 

"Why not? There's a rest area just up ahead; we can switch there." 

"Are you feeling all right, man? You only let me drive your truck when you're, like, blinded or crippled or something." 

"Well, that's why I got a truck that would be cheaper to patch up," Jim said drily, pulling into the rest area. 

In the unfamiliar passenger seat, unable to relax because of the traffic racing past on every side, Jim closed his eyes and tried not to think of this as a metaphor for his out-of-control life. 

The last lingering trace of twilight was gone from the western sky by the time they got home. Jim went up to his bedroom at once and dug out the aspirin from his bedside drawer, downing three of them dry. A few minutes of lying in bed, practicing those breathing exercises that Sandburg swore by, helped the pain recede to a bearable level. 

He pulled on a sweater, but tugged it off again almost at once as the fibers irritated his skin, even through the shirt he wore underneath. It wasn't that cold, anyway. He headed downstairs, sidling past Sandburg in the kitchen to reach the phone. 

"Smells good, Chief," he muttered, glancing down at the stir-fry Blair was making. Consulting the sticky note Serena had stuck to the outside of the case file, he dialed her number. 

"Hello?" 

"Yeah, Serena -- Jim Ellison." 

"Did you find anything?" she asked at once. 

"Uh, nothing concrete. But there were a few things I was hoping you could tell me." 

"Of course." 

"Does your ex do a lot of sports -- outdoor recreation, that sort of thing?" 

"Not really. Lately he's gotten into bicycling a bit." 

"What about surfing?" 

"No, never." 

"Hmm." Jim re-shuffled his thoughts, looking for another explanation. 

"Why do you ask?" 

"Just -- something I thought I noticed at his place. What about, uh, skiing?" 

"He actively avoids it -- when we were in high school, we went on a skiing trip and he hurt his knee pretty badly. Since then he's not interested." 

"Snowboarding? Cross country?" 

"Oh, yeah -- we did do cross-country a couple of times together. Not since Trevor was born, though." 

"Does he like to . . . camp out, go hiking, that sort of thing?" 

"Not really. The closest we ever got to that was a weekend at his uncle's cabin up near Newhalem." 

"His uncle," Jim prompted. 

"David Chang." Serena sighed audibly. "Jim, maybe if you can tell me what you're getting at, I can help." 

"I'm just turning some ideas in my head, trying to get a picture of what kind of guy Jason is -- that's all." 

"Do you have any leads?" 

"If we get anything solid, Serena, I'll be sure to let you and the FBI know about it, okay? Right now we just have a few very vague hints to follow up on. I'll let you know what we find." 

"Okay," she breathed. "Jim . . . I know you're doing your best, but \-- I really have this feeling that we need to find them soon." 

"I understand, Serena. I'm giving this my full concentration." 

"Thanks a lot, Jim. I really appreciate you helping me out --" 

"Don't worry about it. Just try to get some rest and leave it up to us, okay?" Jim waited for her assent, then said goodbye and hung up. 

Blair was watching him curiously. "What was all that? All those questions about sports?" 

"I was just thinking about that wax I found at Chang's place, and I realized why it seemed so familiar." 

Light dawned on Blair's face. "Surf wax!" 

"Now who's got the amazing psychic powers?" Jim tapped his partner's forehead affectionately. 

Blair ducked away. "No, man, I just heard you asking her if Jason surfs. So does he?" 

"Nope, not at all." Jim shrugged. "Then I remembered that sometimes skiers use wax too. But he doesn't ski, either, except for some cross-country." 

Blair frowned. "Isn't that wax thing mostly for, like, downhill racers? People trying to go really fast?" 

"I think cross-country skiers do it too, especially if they go out often enough to wear down the original coating on their skis. From what Serena said, it didn't sound like Chang was one of those. But maybe he has used skis, or something." 

Blair bobbed his head in agreement. "Yeah, or maybe he's in this state where he needs everything to be absolutely perfect." 

"Or maybe he was doing something totally different with the wax and the iron, I don't know." 

Blair pursed his lips. "You could be right -- I mean, why would he take a baby skiing?" 

"That's what I was thinking. But then I thought about that old dry pine needle, and something stuffed with down --" 

"A sleeping bag! That's why you asked about camping!" Blair exclaimed. 

"Two points, chief." Jim made a firing motion with his index finger. "But Serena said the closest they got to camping was Chang's uncle's cabin in the North Cascades. So maybe I'm way off here." 

"An uncle? Wait!" Blair tossed down the spatula and scrambled for his backpack, lying near the door. "What was the uncle's name?" 

"David Chang." 

"That's it! That's it -- look." He held up the notebook where he had written the phone numbers Jim read off to him. "CLE, space, D -- and maybe you thought the AV was an N or a W. Uncle David!" 

Jim stared. "You could be right, Chief." He couldn't think of any other common words ending in CLE -- not the sort that would be found next to a phone number, anyway. 

"I am right. The North Cascades would be in the 360 area code, right?" 

"Yeah, but we don't have the full number." 

"I can pull it off the Web --" Blair started towards his laptop, but Jim caught his arm. 

"Hold it, Flash. Dinner first. Your stir-fry is burning." 

"Ah, hell --" Blair ran for the stove. 

Jim had to grin as he got out plates and started dishing out rice for both of them. It was too long since he and Blair had traded such easy banter. Surely if they could joke so easily, Blair would rethink his idea of moving out -- 

Jim choked and spat out his first mouthful of the vegetable mix. "Sandburg!" he barked, reaching for his glass. "Are you trying to give me a stroke, here?" He guzzled the juice in two seconds and went to the sink for water. 

"What?" Blair looked bewildered. 

"There's more salt in there than the entire Pacific Ocean!" He filled the glass again. 

"I used the low-sodium soy sauce," Blair protested, taking a cautious bite. "It tastes fine to me. Jim, is your sense of taste on overdrive? We can try --" 

"Never mind, I've lost my appetite," Jim growled. He scraped his full plate off into the trash and headed for the stairs. 

"What about that lead? Jason Chang's uncle?" 

Jim waved the annoyance away. "You can do the forensic phoning, Chief. Using that thing just gives me a headache." He climbed the stairs and threw himself on the bed. 

'Just close your eyes and reach out,' Blair had said, but Incacha didn't come. Instead, Jim was assailed by images of Alex Barnes and the kisses they had shared, both in vision and reality. He had stood there on the beach and tasted her lips, and knew it was the last thing Hettinger had tasted before she killed him. In the temple, he had touched her and _felt_ the madness shivering beneath her skin. 

Alex had no Guide. 

'What are you saying, I'm being controlled by some primitive sexual desire or instinct?' 

Alex had gone mad. 

'As a Sentinel, your body chemistry is going wild, but as a man . . . as a man, it affects your feelings.' 

Alex had affected him as no other human being had before. No matter what his brain wanted, his body couldn't resist her. 

'You're not leaving any room for higher brain functions here. Putting the blame on chemistry or pheromones or whatever is just a cop-out.' 

Jim's higher brain functions had really lost out this time. First he'd pushed his Guide away, then he'd let himself be drawn to a rival Sentinel \-- one that was utterly amoral. He couldn't explain his actions, couldn't even put into words what he was feeling at the time. But if he accepted the explanation that he'd been driven by instinct, what hope did he ever have of controlling his own life? 

Jim opened his eyes. This meditation business was not helping one bit. He rolled over and looked down into the living room, looking for something to focus on in the physical world. 

Blair was at the table, tapping away on his laptop. The screen faced away from Jim, but he could see the reflection in Blair's glasses. It showed a search engine on the World Wide Web -- Blair was trying to look up a name. 

"Yesss!" the anthropologist hissed under his breath. He reached out blindly for the telephone and dialed a number from the screen. 

_Hello?_ a tinny voice answered after two rings. 

"Ah, yes, I'm calling for David Chang," Blair said. 

_Speaking._

"Oh, good." Blair collected himself visibly. "My name's Blair Sandburg. I'm a co-worker of Serena Baxter. Your nephew's ex-wife?" 

_Yes,_ the distant voice said heavily. 

"I suppose you've heard about the disappearance of your nephew and his son?" 

_Yes, the police already spoke to me, but I couldn't help them. I haven't heard from Jason in months._

"Oh." Blair sagged a little. "He didn't call you recently?" 

_No. That was what I told the Seattle police._

"Hmmm. Well, you see, we've found some indications that Jason may have been planning to go on a camping trip or something similar. And Serena mentioned that you have a cabin in the North Cascades . . ." 

_Yes. We mostly use it in the summertime._

"Is it possible Jason could have gone up there?" 

There was a pause. _He has a key of his own. But I think the road that leads to the cabin is still closed. There was a lot of snow up there this year -- El Nino, you know._

"I know," Blair said drily. The entire Pacific coast had suffered during the past winter. "Would Jason be able to ski along that road?" 

_I suppose,_ Chang said doubtfully. _If he really wanted to use the cabin, he could do that. But why would he have gone there?_

"It's just a possibility we're looking into," Blair said in a reassuring tone. "Does the cabin have a telephone?" 

_Oh, no. Half the time the electricity is out._

"Great," Blair muttered under his breath. "Well, could you give me the exact location of the cabin, and directions on how to get there? Just so we can be sure." 

_Oh, very well. Take Route 20 up to Newhalem. Go about three miles past the town, and you'll see a motel called the Aspen Lodge. Turn left there and go a quarter mile, until you come to a dirt road leading off to the left. That's Griswold Road. From there . . ._ The voice over the telephone droned on with the complicated directions typical of a rural area. 

Jim turned his hearing down and flopped onto his back again. Blair was doing good work down there; he should help. Or at least let the kid know that he appreciated the effort. But all the thoughts he'd had that afternoon about cutting Sandburg loose came rushing back. 

The half-remembered taste of that single bite of stir-fry suddenly seemed to fill his mouth with rancid juices. He could practically hear the bacteria scraping at the enamel on his teeth. He lay perfectly still, trying not to gag, until the sensation passed and he could breathe normally. 

Down below, Blair was dialing again. Jim focused on the sound of his Guide's voice, not caring what what the words meant -- until he heard his own name mentioned. 

"Ah, yes," said Blair, his voice a little deeper and firmer than usual. "This is Detective Ellison with the Cascade Police Department." 

Jim's eyes snapped open, and he groaned as the rafters swooped crazily over his head. 

"We're investigating a kidnapping," Blair continued, "and we have some indication that the child might have been taken to a cabin in the hills above Newhalem. We wondered if you'd be able to send a deputy to check it out." 

Jim was _not_ tuning his hearing in for this conversation, but even without trying, he could hear aggrieved complaints floating through the line. Blair was trying to be placating while keeping up his official facade. 

"Yes, I underst -- yes . . . Well, our lead is slightly tenuous, which is why we were hoping you could . . . Yes, I know. We have our own manpower problems, too . . . Well, perhaps . . . Look, this is a one-year-old boy we're talking about here, and his life could be in danger . . . No, I know the back roads are closed. But the kidnapper would have had the same problem. We think he was planning to ski in . . . Perhaps if you could just check at the bottom of the road, where it meets the highway. See if the kidnapper's car was left there . . . yes, I have the license number right here." Blair rustled hastily through the case file and read off the number of Jason Chang's Cavalier. "If you could just confirm this one possibility for us, we'll take it from there. Yes, you can call me back at this number --" He gave the phone number for the loft. "Good. Thanks for your cooperation." Blair hung up with a whoosh of breath. 

His stomach having settled, Jim rolled cautiously to look down at his roommate. "Taking my name in vain, Chief?" 

Blair shook his head ruefully. "Oh, man, I had enough trouble getting them to cooperate when I pretended to be a hotshot detective. You think I would have gotten the time of day out of them if I admitted I was a mere observer?" 

Jim stifled a grin. "Just don't let Simon catch you doing that at the station." 

Blair stood up. "They're supposed to call me back in about an hour. They can't get anyone up there before then. Do you think I should let Serena know what's going on?" 

"Nah, wait until we have something definite." Jim punched at his pillow. "Now would be a good time to rest, Chief. If this lead pans out, we could be running all over the county for the rest of the night." He rolled over and closed his eyes, and very deliberately did _not_ think about Alex, or Incacha, or the imminent departure of his Guide. 

* * *

Uninterested in lying down for less than an hour, Blair settled onto the bare wooden floor in the living room, his legs curled neatly under him. He closed his eyes and breathed in a deep, familiar rhythm. Candles were not an option, since they were packed away and Jim was trying to rest anyway, but he seriously needed to meditate. So much had happened in the past few weeks, and he had never really had a chance to process it. 

He had died. Gone to another place. Had a vision while he was there, no less. A rich, complex vision that he had yet to interpret. 

In some cultures, near-death experiences were considered part of the rite of passage for a shaman. Not that most of them went around drowning their shamans-in-training. When necessary, hallucinatory drugs filled the visionary gap. But a child who narrowly escaped death would be marked as a potential shaman. And sometimes an adult -- a warrior, hunter, or mother, who never expected to deal with the mysterious -- would have a brush with death that would move them so profoundly they would change vocations afterward. 

Blair wasn't sure what he had gotten out of dying. In the hospital, he had been filled with amazement at the gift of life, taken away and then given back to him. There had been a serenity pooling at the bottom of his mind, and he felt sure that some enormous insight was near, just beyond his reach. But he hadn't had much time to reach out -- instead, he'd ended up on a wild ride to another country, trying to keep up with a Sentinel who seemed determined to elude him at every turn. And he wasn't talking about Alex. 

There had never been a chance for Blair to sit down and figure out the meaning of his own vision, much less the ones Jim had been having. He had listened in awe to each vision Jim told him about, jotting down notes as soon as he could. He knew his Sentinel still wasn't telling him everything \-- Jim's few words today were the most he'd heard so far about the grotto vision -- but there was still so much to think about even with the little snatches he had collected. 

Jim's visions . . . in an early one, he had shot the wolf. Blair had been shocked when he first heard that, but not as upset as Jim seemed to be. Jim had taken it as a sign that he would hurt Blair -- and later, that he was somehow morally responsible for Blair's brief demise. 

That didn't seem to make sense. Hadn't Jim said he shot the panther also, months ago? And Jim hadn't died -- instead, he'd lost his Sentinel senses. Temporarily. Eventually, he got them back, and the panther as well. 

After Incacha died. 

And the wolf (along with Incacha) had reappeared when Blair died. Was a shaman's death somehow necessary to undo the harm of shooting a spirit guide? 

But what harm _had_ been done when the wolf was shot? If the panther represented Jim's Sentinel senses, what was the wolf -- Blair's Guide instinct? Was that why he had constantly felt like he was off his mark, why he had missed so many crucial connections? 

No. Blair couldn't blame his mistakes on a dream of Jim's. But somewhere along the line, something had definitely been broken. And it hadn't been repaired just because the wolf had appeared at the fountain. Blair had _still_ been two steps behind in Sierra Verde. Even now, he could feel something missing whenever he looked at Jim. 

Then there were the other visions. Blair still remembered vividly the panther and wolf merging in a flare of light. Jim had seen that, too. One of the other visions the Sentinel had described sounded almost similar: the two jaguars, black and spotted, coming together in the forest, leaping up . . . 

And touching each other. Morphing into Jim and Alex, then kissing. 

The whole business of the Sentinel mating urge bothered Blair, but he forced himself to explore it more carefully. The wolf and panther merged \-- but the two jaguars just touched. What did that mean -- that the joining of Jim and Alex was a superficial thing that stopped at the skin, while Blair and Jim were connected on a deeper level? 

It was a nice thought. Blair wished he could believe it. But when Jim had asked him for something he could use to fend off that attraction to Alex, Blair couldn't think of a damn thing to say. 

He turned away from the uncomfortable memory, reflecting on some of the other symbols in the visions. Water. That had been a big one, both in Jim's visions and in reality. Blair knew about all the myths from a myriad different cultures that linked water with rebirth. The Sentinels were supposed to be reborn and renewed in their grotto, but instead Jim had visions of death and Alex fried her brain by going too far, too fast. Blair had _died_ in the water. 

But he had come back from that. Maybe the rebirth symbolism wasn't entirely off. 

He remembered Alex' fascination with the fountain. She had been planning to shoot him, but she hesitated over pulling the trigger. He could see the struggle on her face, though she tried to conceal it. Then she had ordered him to leave the office with her, and he thought she was going to kidnap him, force him to help her with her senses. They got outside, and Alex stopped in front of the fountain, staring at it. She almost seemed to zone out, and Blair thought he could get away. But she grabbed him, shoved him, raised her gun as he staggered over the lip of the fountain -- 

He must have hit his head, because that was all he remembered. Now he wondered what Alex had been thinking when she left him there. She had already mentioned having visions of the temple. Had the fountain reminded her of the grotto? Had she meant for him to drown, or did she guess that he would be reborn? She hadn't seemed particularly surprised to see him alive in Sierra Verde. Perhaps she had heard the sirens approaching, and decided it was time to leave. Perhaps she had been overcome by the call of the temple. 

Fire. That was another big one. It could symbolize either destruction or purification. Jim had dreamed of explosions while he was in the grotto, but he woke with his senses enormously magnified -- purified. Alex had screamed that her skin was burning . . . and she was effectively destroyed. 

The pieces were all there in Blair's mind -- water, fire, rebirth, destruction, animal guides and animal instincts -- but they just weren't coming together. He wasn't making any sense out of this. That tentative insight he'd had in the hospital had faded away -- just as Jim had said the mysteries of the grotto had eluded his grasp once he climbed out of the water. 

Something was missing, not just for Jim, not just for Blair -- but between the two of them. Something was broken. 

The ringing of the telephone brought Blair's eyes open. He turned toward the table, uncurling his stiff legs -- but Jim was already there picking up the handpiece. 

"Hello?" He paused, listening to the voice on the other side. "It's for you -- _Detective_ ," he said, handing the phone to Blair. 

Blair gulped. "Uh . . . yes?" 

"Detective Ellison, this is the Skagit County Sheriff's Office." 

"Yes, uh -- thanks for calling back." 

"We sent a deputy out to check out the road you named, but there were no cars parked by the highway. You did say Griswold road?" 

"Ah, yes, that was the name I was given." 

"Well, I'm sorry, it doesn't look like your kidnapper went that way." 

"I see. Well, thanks for checking up on it for us. You saved us a lot of time." 

"I hope you find the kid." 

"Yeah, me too. Thanks a lot. Bye." Blair clicked off the power button and looked up at Jim. "So much for that lead. Guess it's a good thing we didn't call Serena, huh?" 

Jim nodded absently, appearing deep in thought. 

"Jim? You have an idea?" 

The detective shook his head. "Not really. I thought that cabin was a pretty strong possibility too. I wonder if we should maybe check it out anyway." 

Blair frowned. "It's another couple of hours to drive, and we've already been to Seattle and back today. If we go all the way up there for nothing, that's more time wasted when we could be looking for Trevor." 

"I know, Chief, I know. But . . . I just had a feeling about this one." 

Blair watched his partner more closely. "You mean one of your visions?" 

"No, I haven't had one of those since the temple. This is just a hunch." 

"Well, like you said -- you're the detective. Your hunches have been right sometimes." 

"And disastrous other times." 

They looked at each other. Blair was just about to speak when the phone in his hand rang again, startling him so that he almost dropped it. 

"Hello?" 

"Mr. Sandburg? This is David Chang. You called me earlier . . ." 

"Yes, Mr. Chang. What can I do for you?" 

"It's more what I can do for you. You see, my wife just got home. She's been on a trip for the past two weeks. She wasn't here when I spoke to the police the other day. I really didn't mean to be concealing anything --" 

Jim, obviously listening in on the conversation, stiffened and stepped a little closer. 

Blair held up a hand to forestall his partner and spoke patiently into the phone. "It's all right, Mr. Chang. Why don't you just tell us what you know?" 

"Well, it's my wife really. Janine said she spoke to Jason a week before last Thursday. She left town right after that, and I never knew --" 

"And what did Jason say?" Blair asked eagerly. 

"Well, he was asking about the cabin. Wondered if anyone was using it \-- if we'd been up there recently. Janine told him as far as she knew the road was still snow-covered. He said that was a shame, and that was it. Janine didn't think anything of it. We really weren't trying to hide anything." 

"No, that's okay, Mr. Chang. I understand completely. Thank you for letting us know." 

"You're not going to arrest Jason, are you? He's really a good boy." 

Blair glanced up at Jim, saw his disgusted expression, and looked away. "Well, he did violate the custody agreement and he could be endangering Trevor right now. Especially if he took him off to such an isolated area without letting anyone know where they were going." 

"Oh. I do hope the baby's all right. But Jason would never hurt him, really. He shouldn't be sent to jail." 

Blair winced. "That's really up to a judge to decide, Mr. Chang. Right now we're just trying to find Jason and Trevor and make sure they're both okay." 

"I see. Well, I hope you do find them. Just . . . don't be too hard on Jason, will you?" 

"We'll . . . do our best, Mr. Chang. Thank you for your help." Blair clicked off the phone and looked up at Jim. "Well?" 

Jim shrugged. "It doesn't make that much difference. So maybe Jason Chang was _thinking_ about the cabin two days before he ran. That doesn't mean he actually went there." 

"But it does make your hunch look a lot better," Blair pointed out. 

"His car isn't there, Chief." 

"We've got several clues. The phone call, the warm clothes, the condensed milk -- plus the skis and the sleeping bag--" 

"You mean the wax and the pine needles," Jim corrected. 

Blair waved that away. "Trust your senses, man. You think he went up there?" 

Jim met his gaze solemnly. "Yeah, I do." 

"Then let's go." 

* * *

The fine, summery weather of the morning and early afternoon had given way to another temper tantrum of El Nino. Rain splattered steadily on the truck's windshield and ran in rivulets along the road, unable to soak into the waterlogged ground. Jim's Sentinel sight cut easily through the darkness, but he was only too aware that the other drivers on the road didn't have the same advantage. He ignored the occasional stabs of pain through his temples as he kept an eye out for any trouble. 

Sandburg was far less talkative than usual. After the initial flurry of map-reading as they left Cascade and wound their way through Skagit County, he spent a lot of time staring out the side windows into darkness. 

He wasn't even reading anything. He'd kept the dome light on for a while to look at the map, and then flipped quickly through the file on the kidnapping. As expected, Sandburg then pulled out a book -- the Way of the Shaman, according to Jim's peripheral vision -- and turned to a marked page. But he just stared at that single page for a while, then sighed and flipped off the dome light. 

"If you want to read, Sandburg, it's no problem. I got the alternator fixed." 

"That's okay, man." Blair looked at the rain-streaked windows. "Too bad it's nighttime. This is supposed to be a beautiful drive." 

Jim glanced up at the mountain peaks looming through the darkness, too high to be framed by the windshield. "It is." 

Blair glanced at him in surprise and smiled, but he didn't take the opportunity to grill Jim on what the Sentinel could see in these conditions. 

Sandburg with nothing to say was unusual enough. But Sandburg with nothing to _read_ was scary. Jim wondered if it was related to what the grad student had talked about that morning. He hadn't handed in the intro to his dissertation, so his committee had cut off his funding -- not surprising if the kid was a little down. But surely there was something else Sandburg could do? 

Jim cleared his throat before asking diffidently, "So . . . what are you planning to do about your dissertation, Chief?" 

Blair sighed. "I don't know. I have a few options, I guess. I could go back to Sierra Verde and study that temple. Just the writings on the inside are, like, a _major_ discovery. It would be a pretty big deal, especially if I can publish before Santiago finishes his stuff in the Yucatan." 

Jim frowned. "And that would take, what . . . a few months?" 

"At least. But it would all hinge on whether or not I could get funding. And I'd have to apply to the government of Sierra Verde for permission . . . for all I know, they'll want their own archaeologists to work on it." 

"So what are your other options?" 

"Well, I could do like you said earlier and write it on another Sentinel. Alex is in prison in Sierra Verde, but if I could get access to do tests on her -- and if she even has the enhanced senses anymore . . ." 

Jim felt a wave of anger sear through him. "Isn't there anything you could do that doesn't involve leaving Cascade?" he growled, wincing as an oncoming car was slow to turn off its brights. 

Blair looked at him in surprise. "Is there some reason I should stay?" he asked. "No, never mind . . . the other thing I could do would be to write my thesis on the police department, like I've been pretending all along. I mean, just the notes I took on the reaction to Captain Finkelman would be enough for a chapter or two. I could do some interviews, put together a profile of the social dynamics in the department . . ." 

"So you're talking about giving up the Sentinel thing altogether?" 

Blair snorted. "Jim, would you make up your mind? You don't want me to write about you, you don't want me to travel so I can write about something else -- what the hell do you expect?" 

Jim freed a hand from the wheel to rub his temple. "I don't know, Chief. I guess . . . I'm just used to having you around to help out when I have trouble with these senses." 

"Jim, we went over that already. I told you, I'll be glad to help out. All you have to do is call. But on a daily basis, man, you really don't need me tagging after you. You've got plenty of people at the station who'd be delighted to ride with you. And Megan even knows about your senses -- she'd make you a great partner." 

Jim cringed inwardly at the thought of dealing with Connor's temper every day. He almost missed the obstruction up ahead as they came around a curve, slamming on his brakes just in time. 

"Whoa!" Blair peeled Jim's forearm from his chest and looked along the line of taillights. "What's going on?" 

"It's a traffic jam, Chief." 

"I can _see_ that." 

"Well, why don't you go knock on the window of the car in front of us and see if they know what's going on? Then they can ask the people in front of _them,_ and . . ." Jim trailed off as he noticed a state police cruiser at the side of the road ahead. He could hear the crackle of the radio inside, but it was hard to make out the words -- 

A flare of light blinded him, piercing right through his eyes and into his brain. 

"Dammit, Sandburg! Would you turn out the light?" 

Blair clicked off the dome light. "Sorry, man -- you said the alternator was good." 

"It's not the battery I'm worried about, it's my eyes." Jim rubbed a hand across his face. 

"You having trouble filtering again, Jim? You should have said something. Here, let me --" Blair reached out just as Jim let his hands fall, and fingers jammed awkwardly against elbow. Blair pulled his hand back. 

"Just leave it, will you?" Jim threw the truck into reverse before anyone could show up behind them. "There's a truck overturned on a curve up ahead. It should take them about half an hour to get it upright again." He started to turn the pickup around. 

Blair studied the line of cars that extended around the next bend, well out of sight even for a Sentinel. "Okay, I give. How did you know that?" 

"Heard it on a trooper's radio." 

Blair laughed. "Good one, man! But, uh, what are you doing? There aren't a lot of alternative roads around here. Following one of those dirt tracks could take us another hour." 

"Don't worry, Chief. I just thought it'd be a good time to stop and stretch our legs. I saw a gas station a couple miles back." 

Unfortunately, a lot of other drivers had the same idea, and the tiny four-pump station was a zoo. Jim lined the truck up behind three other cars waiting for the same pump. 

"Uh, if it's okay with you, man, I'll just --" Blair gestured at the convenience store attached to the station. "Too much coffee, y'know?" 

"Go on, I'm not your mother," Jim sighed impatiently. 

"Right," Blair said under his breath as he slipped out. 

The first pump to open up was on the wrong side of the truck, and by the time Jim had turned around someone else had taken the spot. The detective was more than a little annoyed by the time he got his chance to stand under the dripping awning in a chill wind to fill up his gas-guzzler. 

Looking through the window of the convenience store, he noted that Blair was apparently filling up on coffee again. "Hope he realizes the only facilities where we're going are the trees," Jim muttered to himself. Just then the nozzle he was holding gave a sickly click and gas gushed out over his hand and arm. 

"God damn it!" Jim released the trigger and jumped back from the spreading pool of gas. "Doesn't this thing have a cutoff?" 

His sleeve was soaked. The acrid odor of the gasoline assaulted his sinuses and made his head swim. He pulled off his sweater, thankful that he'd left his coat safely on the front seat. The sweater went in the pickup bed -- there was no way he would tolerate having that smell in the cab with him. The cotton shirt underneath had fortunately escaped harm, but his hand stank, and it was beginning to burn. 

He stomped into the store and bypassed the line for the restroom, waving his aromatic hand in the face of the one man who objected. Of course the place didn't offer such amenities as hot water, but Jim determinedly scrubbed his hand and forearm. The soap was too harsh; despite the numbing effect of the cold water, Jim could feel his skin starting to flake as soon as he left the little room. The only hand lotion he could find on the shelves was greasy, disgusting stuff, but he carried it to the checkout line anyway. 

After he paid for the gas and lotion, and complained about the broken valve, he reached his truck to find Blair waiting for him, happily slurping down coffee. "What took you so long, man?" 

Jim just growled and pulled his coat on over the thin shirt before starting up the truck. 

As the trooper's radio had promised, the obstruction was just starting to clear up as they reached the end of the line of waiting cars. Slowly, everyone got going again, spreading out as each driver settled on a comfortable speed. The road began to twist and climb as they got further into the mountains, and the rain turned to sleet. 

Most of the traffic going their way turned off into side roads as they reached Marblemount, and they were alone on the road once they left the town behind. The stuff hitting the windshield now was a mixture of rain, ice and wet snowflakes. A crust of ice accumulated on the glass at the end of the wipers' reach. Intricate ice particles danced in the beam of the headlights. 

Jim blinked rapidly as he realized the swirling snow had almost hypnotized him. Without oncoming cars blinding him every five seconds, he could see more clearly, but that didn't help him resist the temptation to watch the snow instead of the road. 

He glanced over at Blair, who was staring out the windshield with similar fascination. "Penny for your thoughts, Chief." 

Blair jumped. "Huh?" 

"Talk to me. I need to stay awake, and the radio reception up here is lousy." Jim scowled. Before all this mess had started, Blair would have known that Jim needed a distraction. 

"Oh . . . what do you want to talk about?" 

"Whatever's been on your mind. You looked pretty fascinated just now." 

"Oh. Um, I was just thinking about Alex." 

Jim's fists clenched involuntarily around the steering wheel, but at least he was awake. "Go on." 

"Well, I mean, the difference between you and her. It's so striking. She has all the hallmarks of a Sentinel, you know -- the enhanced senses, the mystical visions, everything. Except for a protective instinct." 

"There's more differences between me and Alex than just that," Jim objected. 

"Well, she was more in touch with her spiritual side -- a little too _much_ in touch, if you know what I mean. Is that what you were thinking of?" 

Jim gave a negative grunt. "Alex didn't have a Guide." 

Blair went very still, but Jim could hear his heart thumping loudly. "She _did_ have a Guide, man. For a whole week. She took everything she could learn from him, and then killed hi-- me. After suitable expressions of gratitude and regret, of course." 

Jim squinted, forcing himself to see the road instead of the image of Blair's face looking gray in the morning sunlight. "If she could do that, she had no idea what having a Guide is all about. Or being a Sentinel, for that matter." 

"Yeah, but . . ." Blair shrugged. "At the same time, there were so many things the same about the two of you. Even aside from the visions and the senses. You were both reluctant to believe me at first. You're both very physical people, both risk-takers --" 

"There's a big difference between someone who takes risks to steal nerve gas and a cop taking risks in the line of duty." 

"Yeah, that's what I said -- you two are the same except for the protective instinct thing. You even reacted the same way to each other. Hostile at first, and then, um . . . not so hostile." 

Jim gritted his teeth. "Chief, I told you I didn't know what was going on there. It was like I wasn't myself." 

"And you think it was in character for _her_ to come running to meet you without even a weapon on her? You were both under some sort of . . . influence. I've been wondering if it had to do with being in Sierra Verde. See, when she was in Cascade it was like a turf rivalry kind of a thing. She was a threat to this place you already established is yours. The Sentinel of the great city couldn't let someone else try to horn in on his territory, right? But once you were on neutral ground, the mating instinct took over." 

"You make us sound like some kind of animals." 

"Jim, we're all human animals. In your case, the senses just make some kinds of urge much more overwhelming. But it might have been more than just a matter of neutral ground. It could have been because you were so close to the temple. Damn, I wish I had a chance to study that thing some more!" 

"What does the temple have to do with it?" 

"Maybe everything. There's an archeologist named Feliz Santiago who found references to that temple up in the Yucatan. And Burton mentioned it in his studies based in Paraguay. Do you realize what that means, man? Ancient Sentinels may have traveled hundreds or even thousands of miles to reach that temple. It would be like a meeting place for Sentinels from different cultures throughout Central and South America \-- maybe even further north. And it would be the perfect place for Sentinels to mate with each other and make more new Sentinels." Blair considered a moment and grimaced. "There are a few problems with that theory, though, because a lot of those early cultures had very strict prohibitions against marrying outside of the tribe. But that just means the instinct had to be even stronger, to make the Sentinels overcome their social conditioning." 

"That's great, Chief. So the female Sentinel travels hundreds of miles to visit the temple, and then she gets to walk back home pregnant?" 

Blair's head turned sharply. "Jim, Alex isn't -- I mean, she couldn't be --" 

"We didn't do anything, Sandburg," Jim growled. "There wasn't time." 

"Oh. I thought . . . well, you were way ahead of me and Megan getting to the temple . . ." 

"As soon as I found the place, Alex shot me with a dart dipped in curare. By the time the paralysis wore off, she had me drugged and in the water. And when I got out, she was in the other pool." 

"Oh. Well, that's good to know," Blair said in a voice almost too soft to catch. He cleared his throat. "So, um . . . how do you feel about Alex now?" 

"She's off the radar screen, Sandburg. I don't feel anything but glad she's gone." 

"You don't feel sorry for her? Sympathetic?" 

Jim swallowed. It wasn't exactly sympathy, but he had a definite horror of meeting the same fate himself. "She brought it on herself. Like you said, she had a Guide's help for a while there. If she had actually listened to you, instead of attacking you and then trying to see the eye of God on her own . . ." He trailed off, thinking about what could have happened if Alex had been less rabid. She could have taken Blair instead of killing him. If she had played her cards right, Blair might even have gone willingly. Jim had pushed him away one too many times, and now the kid was convinced he wasn't needed . . . 

Blown powder snaked across the road in arcane symbols, disappearing beneath the truck's hood. Tiny crystalline structures flirted with the eye, swirling through the light in sheets as the wind whipped them around. They were thicker over in this direction . . . 

The world lurched and groaned and came to a jolting stop with a shout of Jim's name. 

Jim blinked. The truck was wedged up against a tree, canted a little to one side with the bed higher than the cab. "What happened?" 

Blair's fingers slowly peeled away from the dashboard. "We went off the road. Did you zone out, or what?" He reached for his seatbelt clasp with shaking hands. 

"The snow . . ." Jim shook his head sharply. "Are you okay?" The tree they had slid into was on Sandburg's side, but the door hadn't buckled inward -- they must have been going slowly by the time they hit it. Turning, Jim looked out the back window to see the hill they had slid down, and the road above them. Underbrush and saplings crowded the embankment, crushed and denuded of snow along the line the truck had followed. 

"I'm fine. Jim, what's up with you? You didn't lose control or skid \-- you just kept going straight when the road curved." 

"I was, was . . . distracted." Jim's hand went automatically to the ignition, but the truck had already stalled. Snow rattled sharply across the windows and the roof of the cab. He turned off the headlights. 

"Whoa! Y'know, man, some of us can't see a whole lot like this." 

"I don't want to drain the battery, Chief. Just hang tight while I check out the damage." Jim stepped out of the car into knee-deep crusted snow. The truck's chassis was sitting up on a winter's icy accumulation, and the shocks were fully extended. There was no way the tires would get purchase like this -- the truck wasn't even resting on them. 

He explored a little further, squinting as wind-blown powder stung his face. They had come down a steep embankment to stop nearly forty feet below the road. Various saplings had sacrificed themselves to stop the truck's momentum, fortunately without causing much damage. The front grille was intact, and the passenger door only slightly dented. There was no knowing what the undercarriage might look like, but Jim guessed that it would be okay. He might need a new muffler, but not much more; the undergrowth they had slid over didn't look too stiff. 

"So what do you think?" Blair's voice came unexpectedly from just a pace away. A groping hand patted at Jim's shoulder for support. 

Jim turned and glared. "You should have stayed in the car, Chief. You'll freeze out here." He knew the younger man had been fighting chills ever since he was drowned. 

"Yeah, like you can talk, man. Your coat isn't even zipped up, and --" Blair's fingers paused on Jim's lapel. "Didn't you even bring a sweater?" 

"I spilled gas on it." Jim pulled his feet out of the sucking snow and tromped determinedly to the back of the vehicle, bending to check the tailpipe. 

"Jim, you're shivering. Get back in the truck -- we can figure out what to do just as well in there." Blair caught Jim's sleeve and towed him back to the open door on the driver's side, preceding him in since the other door was jammed shut. 

Jim stamped the snow from his feet and lower legs onto the floor of the truck, but it didn't do much to banish the chill he was feeling. "I think the truck's basically okay, but we're not getting out of here without help from a wrecker with a winch and a good long chain." He looked at his watch. "It's almost midnight. The chances of someone passing by before morning aren't too good, but I bet we'll see a snowplow just after dawn -- this is a major road, and tomorrow is a school day." 

Blair blew into his cupped hands. "Well, see if the engine will start up so we can get some heat in here. Doesn't feel like it's nearly June, does it?" 

Jim tried the ignition, let it catch, then turned it off before the engine had run more than a minute. 

"Jim, come on, you want us to freeze to death?" 

"The tailpipe is blocked, Chief. If we run the motor we'll suffocate." 

"So unblock it! Isn't there a shovel or something in the back?" 

"No, I put the shovel away in March once I was sure we wouldn't get any more snow in Cascade. Anyway, with the wind blowing the snow around, it wouldn't stay unblocked for long." 

"So what are we supposed to do? Can you call for help or something?" 

Knowing what he would find, Jim pulled out his cell phone anyway. "No signal," he reported. 

"What about your radio?" Blair gestured at the black box mounted under the dash. 

"It's programmed for Cascade PD frequencies, Chief. No way we can reach any of their receivers from here." 

"Well, can't you reprogram it?" 

"I don't know the local frequencies." 

"This sucks, man. Does that mean we have to get out and walk?" 

Jim glanced through the rear window at the slope leading up to the road. It should be less than ten miles to Newhalem -- they could walk that in a few hours. Or they could head back to Marblemount, which was a little further but had the advantage of being downhill. But he remembered the snow whipping around his ears and stinging his face. That wasn't a walk he wanted to make in this weather, and he had no intention of letting Sandburg try it, either. "We wait it out until dawn," he decided. "At first light, I'll carry a flare up to the road so they'll know someone's in trouble down here." 

"What, you mean we just sit here? Jim, we're gonna freeze if we don't get warm somehow!" 

"Take it easy, Sandburg. A lot more stranded motorists die from carbon monoxide poisoning than by freezing to death. We just have to stick it out for a few hours. In the meantime . . ." He reached a long arm behind the seat to where his camping supplies were stashed. "This plus our body heat should keep the temperature in here from getting too low." He set a can of sterno on the dashboard; it immediately slid forward to clink against the windshield. Pulling it back, Jim wedged it in place with a couple of canteens, then dug in his pocket for a lighter. The flame would leave soot on the windshield, but he could clean it off later. He cracked his window open. The small blue flame danced wildly, making bizarre shadows inside the truck. 

"Jimmm!" 

"We need to breathe, Chief, and so does the fire. Now come on. We can take off our boots and wet pants and get into --" He frowned, groping in the space behind the seat. "Where's your sleeping bag?" 

"In my office," Blair said sullenly. 

"Your _office_?" 

"Yeah, you know, where I had to sleep for a few nights because I couldn't afford a hotel?" 

Jim gulped. "Well, we've still got my bag. You take it -- you're still at risk for pneumonia." 

"At least I'm dressed for the weather, man! I've got layers. You're the one in a cotton shirt and a raincoat -- you take it." 

Jim sighed. "Maybe we could open it up and spread it over our laps." 

Blair looked up at him with the strangest expression -- exasperated, yet somehow fond. Had he forgotten how clearly Jim could see him in this light? "We can both get in the sleeping bag." 

Jim's eyebrows flew up. He had tried that a time or two in his wild youth, when he went camping with a girlfriend. It hadn't been a big success. "Neither of us is exactly Calista Flockhart, Chief." 

"No, come on man, I know how to do this. You just have to set it up right. Unzip the bag to the bottom, but not all the way across the bottom." 

Jim considered. It wasn't as if he were squeamish about being close to Sandburg. And the kid really did need to stay warm, which wouldn't happen if they were both doing martyr routines about who got the bag. Obediently, he unrolled the bag and opened the zipper down to the foot. 

"Okay, now we lay it down across the seat like this --" Blair wedged himself in the narrow space between the dashboard and seat, trying to get the sleeping bag arranged. 

Jim bent down to pull the lever and let the bench seat slide back, giving them more room. 

"Good, now -- off with the pants and boots." Blair went through gymnastic contortions on his side of the truck. 

"Do we need to take off our pants, Sandburg?" 

"Yours are soaked up to the knee, Jim. I am _not_ sharing a sleeping bag with them." 

Jim sighed and peeled the sodden fabric down his legs, shivering as damp flesh met cold air. 

"Now, you first -- stretch out on your side, and get as far into the bag as you can." 

Jim got his feet into the bag and pressed his back up against the seat, pulling the sleeping bag tight around him. He head was wedged uncomfortably against the driver's side door. 

"Okay, you ready?" Blair sat in the middle of the seat and scooted back against Jim. 

"Ouch! Sandburg, that was my --" 

"Sorry, man." 

"God, your feet are cold!" 

"Well, so are yours. They'll just have to get warm together." Blair doubled himself, braced against the dashboard. 

"Sandburg, your hips are digging into my --" 

"I'm trying to reach the zipper without falling off the damn seat," Blair complained. 

Jim held his partner close to brace him, trying not to remember the last time he had clung so tightly to his Guide, on a day darkened by grief and failure. At last, rasping sounds heralded Blair's gradual straightening out. 

"Okay, got it," Blair said when the bag was zipped tightly up to their hips. "Now, this is the tricky part." He paused. "We could just leave it there -- I mean, we both have coats --" 

"I don't want you catching pneumonia, Chief." 

"Okay, first let me . . ." Blair writhed out of his bulky coat, rolled it into a log, and stuffed it next to the door as a pillow. "Here goes, then. Suck it in." Blair's elbows stuck out as he pulled the zipper inch by inch up to their chests. Then he painstakingly squirmed his arms inside the confined space, and zipped the rest of it from the inside. 

They were in the bag, plastered together the length of their bodies, with Blair's arms folded like a preying mantis' and Jim's arms wrapped around his partner's waist. The hair on Blair's legs tickled Jim's thighs. 

"One joke, Chief," Jim said warningly. "One stupid comment . . ." 

Blair chuckled. "Do I look that dumb, man?" 

"Well, if I start hearing gossip at the station about this, I'll know who to blame." 

"Come on, man -- it reflects pretty badly on me too, y'know!" 

Jim scowled. He was the one who had zoned out while driving. He was the one who hadn't checked the supplies in the truck before they headed for the mountains. 

Blair was silent a few minutes, apparently staring at the dancing blue flame on the dash. Jim let his head fall onto Blair's coat. His partner's scent was all around him; Blair's hair was practically climbing up his nose. For all the discomfort of their situation, Jim felt oddly secure here, holding his Guide. 

"Hey, Jim?" 

"Hmm?" Jim opened his eyes, realizing he had been about to fall asleep. 

"Tell me again why we didn't just hand this lead over to the FBI?" 

Jim yawned. "Because it was after business hours, and they wouldn't be checking it out until sometime tomorrow." 

"Jim -- _we_ won't be checking it out until sometime tomorrow." 

"Hmm, true. Well, didn't Serena say the feds more or less handed the case off to the SPD?" 

"You're right. And anyway, we're her friends." 

"Exactly." 

"We're going to look pretty bad if this lead doesn't pan out, after all this." 

"If my hunch is wrong, Chief, it's going to be bad for more than just us. For the boy's sake, I'd better be right." 

Blair worked a hand down far enough to pat one of Jim's. "They'll be there, man. We just have to go get them." 

Jim sighed, wishing he had Blair's faith. "Rest, Chief. We'll get there in the morning. Right now we just have to wait." He dropped his head to their makeshift pillow. 

"Okay," Blair said softly, letting his own head fall. His hair drifted across Jim's face, surrounding him with a scent of safety. 

Jim stalked through a blue-tinted jungle, the humid night air whispering across his skin. He wore all his familiar gear, but the quiver that bounced against his shoulder blade was empty. He knew without drawing it that his knife was blunt and broken-tipped. Even the small darts in his pouch were useless, their paralyzing poison worn off. 

He was weaponless amid the wilderness. 

He loped through the thick foliage on barely-visible paths, alert to every rustle that might indicate a predator or an enemy. But nothing appeared to challenge him, and eventually he came through to a clearing. In front of a stone structure half eaten by the jungle, Incacha waited. 

Jim stopped, his heart pounding. 

The shaman extended a hand, palm outward. "What do you fear?" he asked, his voice deeper than in life. 

Jim shook his head, denying the question. "Fear . . . doesn't rule me," he tried to say. But the words rang false even to his own ears. 

"What do you fear?" 

He remembered Alex, screaming as her senses exploded. "I fear . . . losing my mind." 

"What do you _fear_?" 

"I fear losing my Guide." The words escaped without Jim's volition. "He says I don't need him anymore, since I have you. But . . . I do need him." 

Incacha smiled sweetly. "Does he know this?" 

Jim gulped. "I tried to tell him." 

"But you have denied him, as you once denied me." Incacha's arm stretched impossibly, until his palm filled Jim's vision. "Remember . . ." 

Painful colors and sounds burst into Jim's mind. He was crouched on the floor of a small hut. Polished chips of bone gleamed on the packed earth before him, then were snatched away by a small hand. Shrill laughter battered at his ears. 

"I won! Enqueri, I beat you!" 

A warm shadow bent over the little girl. "It is late -- Enqueri is tired. And so should you be. Time to sleep." 

Under protest, the girl was bustled off to her mother. 

Jim looked around in bewilderment. The village. Incacha's home and family. So many forgotten details swarming against his senses. The latrine he had convinced the villagers to dig _still_ wasn't far enough away. 

"Enqueri." A hand gripped his elbow, a soft voice compelled him to turn and meet dark eyes. 

"Incacha." Rising to his feet, Jim tried to shake off the assault on his senses. "I can't . . . I can't focus." The sounds of the jungle at night tore through the walls of the hut. 

Incacha smiled sadly. "I will help." He leaned closer. Jim could smell the body paint the shaman had just washed off, after some ceremony in the afternoon. 

Then Incacha's mouth touched his, and opened, and a tongue pried his lips apart. 

Jim staggered back, hands on the shaman's shoulders to push him away. "What was that?" 

"If I am to guide you properly, we must seal our bond," said Incacha, watching him in puzzlement. 

"Bond? No," Jim said decisively. "No . . ." He blinked as the blue night re-formed around him. He and Incacha stood on the stone platform. Jim dropped his hands hastily. 

"You denied me and refused the bond," the shaman reminded him, some of the unnatural resonance gone from his voice. 

"I couldn't!" Jim gasped. "You -- you were . . . married, and your daughters . . ." 

"Yes," said Incacha sadly. "So I allowed you to refuse. I knew one day you would leave the village, and I was not ready to follow. I let you journey alone to find another Guide. This is why I am helping you now." He straightened, seeming to grow taller. "I cannot walk the spirit paths forever. One day I must return to the circle. You must accept your Guide before then, or remain alone." 

Jim shook his head. "I _have_ accepted him. I let him live with me for three years!" 

Incacha looked grave. "To live together is not enough. You began the joining, then you denied it." 

Jim remembered the rich warmth of Blair's mouth, open beneath his own as hot rain showered upon them. He hadn't tasted Blair again until those lips were blue and slack, and the water that spattered over them bore the chill of death. 

"At the temple, you made a choice. You rejected the path of darkness, but you have not truly accepted the light. Without a bond, your Guide could not help you against the Empty One. Without a bond, he cannot remain at your side." 

* * *

Blair looked around at the jungle, filled with the slanting red light of late afternoon. With a smile, he followed the path beneath his feet until he came to a familiar clearing where his mentor sat by a smoldering fire. 

"It is good to see you, Elder," Blair said as he sank to his knees on the other side of the fire. He still struggled with the Chopec dialect of Quechua, but the greetings, at least, came easily to him. 

The dead man's dark eyes bored into Blair. "You are disturbed, young Shaman." 

Blair gulped. "Am I truly a Shaman?" 

"You will be." 

"But I don't know enough. In . . . Sierra Verde --" He had no idea if the tiny country had its own name in Quechua "-- I couldn't help Jim -- Enqueri." 

"You did help him. You kept him from [something] with [something]." 

Blair frowned, not recognizing all the words. He thought the first one meant something sexual, and the second, _runallin_ , sounded like it referred to a female person. That was enough for him to get the gist. "I stopped them on the -- on the _playa_ , yes." Not knowing how to say 'beach' in Quechua, he used the Spanish equivalent. Incacha would understand. "But I couldn't make Enqueri stop _her_. He still wanted her." He had the feeling that _wanted_ had the wrong connotation here, but it would have to do. 

Incacha nodded. "Your [something] with Enqueri is not complete. There was little you could do to help him." 

Blair shook his head. "I don't get it," he protested in English, then forced himself to struggle on in the less familiar language. "In the, um, _iglesia_ , you came to warn me in my dream, so I could stop Enqueri. But I had no warning when he went alone to the . . . the place of the Sentinels." 

"If you had been there, the _runallin_ would have used you for [something]. He had to make the choice to stop her. The [something] is not a good place for a Guide unless the [something] is complete." 

Blair had to think about that for a while, trying to imprint the unfamiliar phrases in his brain. One of those, he thought, referred to the Temple of Light, and his heart leapt with excitement at the thought of learning more about it. But he had to concentrate more on the meaning of what Incacha had just said. He couldn't help Jim against Alex at the Temple, because his _chaupipi_ wasn't complete. Incacha had said that word before. 

Cautiously, Blair tried, "How do I complete the chaupipi?" He wasn't even sure he had reconstructed the fragment correctly. 

Incacha smiled. "You have already begun. Follow your heart." He reached across the fire and pressed a tattooed hand to Blair's chest. 

With a start, Blair awoke. The first thing he was aware of was a warm hand pressed over his heart. The next was that his lips were only inches from Jim's. 

Somehow, Blair had turned around while he was asleep. The reason was no mystery -- with the seat canted the way it was, he had felt as if he was about to fall off the edge of a cliff, even with Jim's arms and the pressure of the sleeping bag holding him steady. The combination of enclosed spaces and fear of falling was not a good one for Blair, and he was surprised he had fallen asleep in the first place. But he had no idea how he could have turned around in the bag, much less without waking Jim. 

Then he felt the cold air against his back through the sweater and realized the zipper must have slipped down, giving him a little more freedom to move. Now he was facing Jim -- their arms intertwined, their bare knees bumping each other, and their breath mingling. Blair's heart thumped painfully at the temptation before him. 

Jim twitched. In the flickering light from the little sterno can, Blair could see the Sentinel's eyes moving behind closed lids. He was dreaming. 

Wind-blown ice rattled sharply across the roof of the truck, and Jim's eyes flew open. He looked younger -- strangely vulnerable -- and his lips moved uncertainly, forming words Blair couldn't hear. His hands rose to caress Blair's cheeks, massaging them as if to make sure the younger man was really there. One hand slipped back, tangling into Blair's hair. And then Jim moved forward those two narrow inches and fused their mouths together. 

Blair responded eagerly, sucking in his Sentinel's tongue and stroking it with his own. He arched against Jim's warmth, feeling powerful arms holding him close. Hands that could kill cradled Blair's head, mapping the skin of his neck with delicate strokes. Even Jim's legs parted to curl behind Blair's and draw him closer. 

It was delicious -- warm and wonderful and everything Blair wanted. But he hadn't believed that Jim could want it too. His doubts crept up on him, presenting him with the memory of Jim's coldness following their first sexual encounter. After their second -- fueled by desperation -- Jim was silent and withdrawn. That was the last time Blair had dared to believe that his fantasies might come true. 

With an aching heart, he unglued their lips and held Jim's head away from his own. "Jim?" His voice came out husky. "What . . . what's going on?" 

"Need you," the Sentinel gasped. "Need . . ." He strained forward to press warm lips on Blair's neck. 

Blair gasped. Jim needed him . . . just like after Lila. He shouldn't take advantage of that; he knew what a mistake it would be. But that moist tongue was unerringly seeking out his hottest trigger points. "Jim, wait . . . just -- just back off a second." He pried his partner away once more. 

Jim licked at his own lips, as if trying to capture some elusive taste. "Don't leave," he breathed. "Don't go." 

Blair chuckled incredulously. "Where'm I gonna go, man? We're zipped together here." 

"Need you . . ." Strong arms tried once more to pull Blair close. 

"Jim, stop. Just take it easy, okay? I'm not going anywhere. Are your senses going haywire or something?" 

"Only when you leave." Jim stopped pulling, but his hands roamed restlessly across Blair's back. 

"Well, I won't leave then, okay? You can relax. I'm right here. Just try to breathe deeply . . ." As Blair tried to calm himself, providing an example for Jim, he became acutely aware of how closely their lower bodies were pressed together. A certain part of his anatomy was definitely enjoying the contact -- and so, apparently, was the corresponding part on Jim. Blair could feel a hardness poking insistently at his hip through the boxers they both still wore. The heated skin of their legs brushed together. 

Jim's eyes were closed; he looked less frightened, and he wasn't clutching so tightly, but calming down appeared to be the last thing on his mind. His hips were rocking rhythmically against Blair's, and his top leg was winding itself further behind Blair's thighs, welding the two of them together. 

"Uh, Jim . . ." Breathless, Blair tried one more time. "You sure you want to do this?" 

Jim's eyes snapped open. "Yes," he said, his voice dropping into a deeper register with less of a desperate edge. "We have to finish what we started." Almost black in the dim light, his eyes seemed to stare right into Blair's soul. "You want it too." 

"Um." Blair was losing his ability to concentrate. "Yes, but . . . um, but . . . oh, god." He gave up, worming his arms out from between them to clasp Jim's shoulders. He reached for a kiss, his body surging to Jim's rhythm. 

_Follow your heart,_ the shaman had said. And as he had once before, he'd used the word _corazon_ \-- the Spanish organ of love rather than the Quechua center of courage. Which was good, because Blair wasn't feeling very courageous right now, but he desperately wanted to love Jim. This had to be right. It _felt_ right, somewhere deep inside, in spite of all Blair's fears and the memory of what had gone before. This was how it was supposed to be -- him in Jim's arms and Jim in his. 

They moved against each other awkwardly, the sleeping bag binding their hips and confining their legs. Blair hissed in pain as his head bumped the steering wheel. A moment later, Jim twisted his own body underneath, pulling Blair up away from the edge of the seat and pushing against the younger man's weight. Blair's hips were cradled by Jim's thighs, his elbows planted on either side of a heaving chest. 

It was almost surreal, the two of them straining together on a narrow bench seat while a snowstorm whistled outside. They were fully clothed from the waist up -- Jim was still wearing his coat, all rucked up beneath him. It was a shame, because Blair did love to see Jim's naked chest. But at the same time, there was something delightfully secretive about it -- clothed decorum above and naked passion below. They must have looked strange, wrapped in the sleeping bag, like some giant army-green inchworm caught mid-measure. 

Maybe it was the distraction of the circumstances, or perhaps the limited stimulation they could get just from rubbing together. Whichever it was, Blair knew he wasn't going to come. He was excited \-- hard as an iron pole, in fact -- but he just wasn't feeling his arousal build the right way. 

For Jim, clearly, it was a different matter. The older man's head was thrown back, his mouth open in astonished passion. He was pulling Blair close, rubbing against him urgently. Small sounds of excitement escaped from Jim's throat with each movement. His legs trembled eagerly around Blair's, and his erection seemed to burn even through the layers of silk and cotton that separated them. 

Tucking away a shred of disappointment, Blair resigned himself to not coming and took enjoyment just from watching Jim. The face Blair loved, normally so impassive and restrained, was wonderfully expressive now. Blair watched the mobile eyebrows and quivering lips as Jim drew closer to that perfect instant. Unable to resist, he leaned in to capture Jim's mouth, sucking the Sentinel's tongue out of hiding. Jim went still a moment, then bucked sharply, releasing a shout into Blair's mouth. 

Blair pulled back and smiled, stroking his partner's face as Jim slumped into a limp mass. "Shh," he whispered soothingly when Jim burrowed against his neck. "It's okay. There you go. All right now?" 

"Not enough," Jim mumbled against Blair's pulse. 

"Hmm?" 

"You didn't finish." Suddenly, Jim heaved, pushing Blair off him and almost over the edge of the seat. 

"Hey! What're you doing, man? Watch out!" Blair pressed back against the dashboard, realized his hair was getting too close to the dancing flame, and whacked the steering wheel again when he tried to move. 

Jim was taking his coat off. Despite the frosty air, his loose cotton shirt clung stickily -- and sexily -- to the muscles of his chest. With the coat gone, Jim started to kick his legs, loosening the zipper behind Blair's hips so he could reach down and . . . 

Blair gulped. Jim was stripping off his own boxers and tugging at Blair's, as well. He cooperated instinctively. In a few seconds his naked erection was pressed against Jim's damp flesh. 

"Jim, what . . . oh, man." Blair's eyes fluttered closed as a warm hand closed over his hardness. 

"You need to finish," Jim said in a low voice. Then he let Blair go and started moving again. 

Blair yelped and grabbed the steering wheel to brace himself. Jim squirmed up until he was almost free of the confines of the abused sleeping bag, then twisted around to face the seat and sank back down again, spooning back against Blair's hips. 

As naturally as a pigeon seeking its home, Blair's cock slipped into the crevice of Jim's ass. For a moment he thought he would hyperventilate as Jim snagged his arm and pulled them both solidly onto the seat. Blair was crushed up against Jim, his chest plastered across a muscular back and his knees caught between Jim's thighs. 

"Um, Jim . . ." Blair clamped his mouth shut when his voice came out high and shaky. 

"Do it," Jim rumbled, pushing back against Blair. 

"We can't." Blair's hips moved in spite of himself. "It's not -- oh! . . . not safe. Oh, Jim!" He grabbed the bigger man's waist, stroking his cock through the crack between Jim's cheeks. This was good. This was just fine. He could come like this. 

"Safe enough. We're both clean, Chief. Just do it." 

"No, I mean --" Blair gasped for breath. "We don't have anything. We need . . . something." 

"Spit!" Jim snarled. 

"Not . . . enough. This is fine, Jim. I can . . . ohhh . . ." Blair was rocking, lost to a rhythm of need. 

Jim heaved, disrupting Blair's movements. He opened his eyes reluctantly to find Jim patting through coat pockets. After some groping around, Jim pulled an object free and shoved it back at Blair. "Use this." 

It was a bottle of hand lotion. Blair froze. Up until now he hadn't been seriously tempted -- it was unpractical, as well as unsafe, unwise, and unfair to Jim. But now he could look at the lotion in his hand and imagine himself buried balls deep in Jim's body, gripped tightly inside his Sentinel, giving it everything he had. "Um," he said, trying to remember all the rational reasons why it would be a bad idea. 

"Come on, Chief!" When the younger man didn't move quickly enough, Jim snatched the lotion away and squirted out a handful, then reached back. Despite the awkward angle, he actually managed to smear most of it onto Blair's cock. 

Blair moaned. The stuff had been in Jim's coat pocket, and it was body-warm. The sensation of Jim's fingers sliding greasily over his erection was almost too much. 

"There. Now go on." 

Blair gulped. "Um . . . okay. Give me the stuff, let me get you ready." He caught up a dollop of cream that had fallen onto the seat and spread that around the tight pucker of Jim's ass. 

"Forget about that, just finish what you started," Jim growled. He dropped his shoulders and shoved back with his hips. 

Blair couldn't hold out any longer. He lined himself up and pushed inward, the head of his cock slipping inside with a pop. He groaned and thrust uncontrollably, feeling the ring of muscle clasp him hungrily. It was hot, and slick, and tight, and perfect. He pulled back and thrust again, feeling the shock of pleasure echo through his body. Jim's muscles rippled beneath his hands. 

"That's it," the Sentinel ground out through clenched teeth. "Finish it. Seal it." 

Blair pumped into his partner's body, not caring about safety or snowstorms or even the clothes that kept him from feasting on the vision of Jim's flesh. He could feel the glory building. Just the thought that he was fucking Jim -- Jim Ellison -- made his excitement surge like a tidal wave. In a belated bid for fairness, he reached around to stroke Jim's cock -- and found it limp. His eyes went wide with astonishment, and he felt his own cock leap as if electrified. 

"Jim, you -- Jim . . ." He couldn't hold back. "Ohgod, _Jim_!" He curled helplessly over his Sentinel and poured out all the desire and frustration of the last few months. 

He collapsed onto Jim's back, his throat still so tight that each gasp for breath sounded like a sob. Jim eased him down, tipping him to one side and murmuring, "That's it. It's done now." 

The words hardly registered with Blair. "Jim --" he gasped, feeling weariness sap his strength. He felt himself soften and slip free of Jim's body, the pain of separation striking deep into his heart. "Jim, I didn't mean \--" 

"Shh, it's okay. Rest now." Jim tugged at the loosened sleeping bag, pulling the zipper up again as far as he could reach and tucking the remainder of the fabric behind Blair. Their positions had reversed, with Blair's back pressed to the seat and Jim swaddled against his chest. Even the coats had changed; Blair's had slipped down to the floor at some point, leaving Jim's coat for a pillow. 

"Sorry, Jim," Blair mumbled, slurring the words in his exhaustion. 

Jim said something soothing that Blair didn't catch, and pulled the younger man's arm close around his waist. Spooned together, they fell back into slumber. 

* * *

They trudged through the snow toward the cabin. Blair stared at his companion, fascinated by the sepia tone of Burton's skin and clothes, and the way the man flickered as he moved, like an old kinesioscope. 

"I'm afraid I may have misled you somewhat, dear boy," Sir Richard said in stuffy Victorian tones. "The Sentinel's companion frequently served as a tribal shaman, yes, but that role was secondary; the Guide's _primary_ function was to serve as a focus for the Sentinel's senses -- something safe to concentrate on when it was time to relax. That's why the Sentinel and Guide usually lived together, you see. And why . . ." The explorer huffed. "It was important for the Sentinel to imprint the Guide onto his senses. _All_ of his senses." 

"That's where the sex comes in," Blair realized. "I mean, taste wouldn't normally be included in a casual working relationship. But in a _sexual_ relationship, taste and touch can be fully exercised, along with all the others." 

"Precisely. But you mustn't think it was some kind of, of marriage between the two. Just a sort of vital outlet. Sentinels were encouraged to breed with each other, and the Guide would often have a family of his own, in keeping with the tribal part of his job. But they would share dwelling space, and whenever the Sentinel had some sort of sensory overload, the Guide would be easily available." 

Their feet made crunching sounds in the crisp snow. The man next to Blair filled out and flushed into color, becoming a solid and very real Sentinel. Jim grinned down at him. "So you see, Sandburg, we're just following the book here. It was all _supposed_ to work out like this." 

Blair frowned. "That's all there is to it? I thought there was more. I thought you really _wanted_ me." 

Jim chuckled. "Hey, don't expect me to buy you a ring or anything -- I mean, there's too many good-looking women out there, right? I just need to hop into the sack with you now and then, when it all gets to be too much for me. You're okay with that, right, Chief?" 

Blair shook his head. "But what about what _I_ want, man? Jim, I lo--" He broke off as the cabin became visible through the trees. "Oh, wow, look at this! Definite Mayan influence on the design of this place. And look at those jaguar sculptures -- classic Olmec style. This place is totally cross-cultural." 

They continued into the clearing, approaching the miniature pyramid. Blair pointed out carved glyphs on the walls of the cabin that dated from several different periods. "And that trapezoidal side door, man -- that is _textbook_ Incan design. This is so cool, because the Mayans and the Incas didn't overlap in territory _or_ time. You can see that part's more recent than the rest. Half a dozen different cultures must have contributed to this place over the years." 

"Enough with the lectures, Margaret Mead. We're here to catch a perp." Jim knocked on the front door of the temple/cabin and held up his badge. 

Blair frowned in puzzlement. A recessed glass doorway didn't really fit in with the design of a Mayan temple -- or a cabin in the woods, for that matter. Then he realized what was about to happen and reached out to grab Jim, but it was too late. 

The gun went off, shattering the glass door and toppling Jim to the ground. 

Blair yelled and went to his knees beside his partner. A river of blood gushed from Jim's chest and bubbled up between his lips like a geyser. 

Jim's eyes opened, and he looked straight at Blair. "Don't leave," he said clearly. 

Blair felt a prickle between his shoulder blades and turned to look at the shattered door. The shooter stood there, lowering his weapon. 

He wore Blair's face. 

Blair came awake with a cry. The flame on the dashboard was guttering low, but it gave enough light for him to identify his surroundings. Truck -- snowstorm -- sleeping bag; Jim pressed close against his chest. 

He took a deep breath and let it out shakily. "Oh man, what a dream," he murmured softly. "Think maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something?" 

He remembered the image of Jim bleeding and shuddered deep in his bones. It was just a matter of association, he told himself; he remembered what had happened the last time he had sex with Jim, and even though the two events were unrelated, part of him expected it to happen again. As for the rest of the dream, that was just his mind trying to make some sense out of all that had happened in the past few weeks. It wasn't a true vision like his dreams of Incacha -- nothing prophetic here, just an overloaded brain twitching in its sleep. 

And Blair wasn't the only one having brainfarts; Jim was muttering to himself, his muscles rippling tensely. "Nnnnahhh," he whimpered, his voice reedy with sleep. 

There had been a time, after the incident with Lash, when Blair almost felt like he was the only person in the world who had nightmares. He hadn't really noticed how suspiciously quick Jim was to appear and wake him up whenever the shakes started. Then, on Blair's first night of sound sleep, it was Jim who shattered the silence with screams. The Sentinel had actually been shaken enough to describe some of the dream, a nasty one where he came home after Blair's distress call to find the loft trashed -- and Blair dead in the bathtub. 

Over the years, Blair had gathered that Jim's worst nightmares were generally about failing other people. There had been the night after the elevator incident, when Blair wasn't stupid enough even to _try_ sleeping. Jim had dozed off on the couch only to wake with a shout. There were other broken nights after Incacha died, and again following Lila's death and its sequel -- which bore some definite similarities to today's events. 

So Blair felt pretty confident that Jim's current dream probably involved a fountain and a dead Guide. He gave the man in his arms a gentle squeeze and murmured, "It's okay, Jim. I'm right here. I'm okay." 

Jim twisted as if he were trying to pull free. "Nnnohh," he moaned. "Lemme go. Don' tussh me." 

Blair frowned. It sounded as if Jim were dreaming about _himself_ in danger -- trapped, or held against his will. That wasn't exactly a common occurrence in the real world; there had been that time with Colonel Oliver, but Blair had been more upset about that than Jim. Of course, Alex had paralyzed Jim and shoved him in that grotto -- maybe that was what had set this off. 

"It's okay," Blair repeated, patting Jim's chest. "You're safe." 

Jim writhed again. "Geh y'r fuck'n hands off me!" he slurred a little more loudly. "Please . . . someb'y stop 'em. Someb'y . . . don' let this happ'n . . . nohhhhh . . ." 

"Jim, wake up, man," Blair said, starting to get alarmed. He gave Jim a shake. 

Jim squirmed enough to plant an elbow weakly in Blair's ribs. "Stop. Please . . . hurts. God . . . don' let this happen . . . aaaahhhhh . . ." The last cry was thin and weak, but Blair could almost hear the full-voiced scream it would have been if Jim were awake. 

Getting the idea that Jim didn't want to be trapped, Blair unwrapped his arms from around Jim's body and instead stroked his partner's forehead. "Jim, it's okay. Wake up!" 

Jim jerked. "Huh?" 

"You awake, man? You were dreaming." 

"Oh. Thought they had me again . . ." Jim's head dropped, and he slumped back into sleep. 

Blair swallowed hard, still reflexively petting Jim's short hair. He was trying to convince himself he had jumped to a wrong conclusion, but really he could only think of one way to interpret that dream. It wasn't about Alex; Jim had said Alex never had time to do anything to him except sticking him in that grotto. And anyway, Alex wasn't a 'they.' No, someone else at one time or another had held Jim against his will and forced . . . something on him. Something that he had been reminded of by tonight's activities. 

Simon had tried to warn Blair. The captain had said years ago that there was some ugly incident in Jim's past -- but Blair had conveniently forgotten that warning, just because he was thinking with the wrong head. Jim hadn't really been enjoying himself tonight, that much was clear. He had pushed Blair and urged him to get it over with, but not for the sake of his own arousal. And when Blair had found out that his partner wasn't even hard . . . 

He couldn't lie still any longer. He squirmed free of the sleeping bag, which had only been tucked behind him and never properly re-zipped. He had to climb over Jim in the narrow space, trying to avoid hitting his head on anything or catching his hair on fire. Then he groped around for his pants -- still damp -- and shoes. Crouching in the passenger's footwell, he worked the cold denim on over bare skin. He was _not_ going to try to find his boxers in the foot of the sleeping bag. 

Having slept through all of Blair's thrashing around as he dressed, Jim came awake when Blair tried to get the passenger door open, having forgotten that it was wedged against a tree. "Blair?" 

Startled, Blair fell onto Jim's feet. "Sorry, man," he gasped. "I just need to step out for a moment." 

Jim levered up on one elbow. "It's cold out there." 

"Tell that to my bladder, man! I'll just be a few minutes. Go back to sleep." Blair squeezed between his partner and the steering wheel to get to the other door, shivering as his groin was pushed right in Jim's face. He stumbled out into the snow and slammed the door shut, belatedly hoping that Jim's head hadn't been in the way. He didn't look back, but floundered through the sea of white. With every other step, the snow crust broke and he sank thigh-deep; it only made him struggle harder. 

He ended up backtracking the truck's path up towards the road. The tire tracks had filled with soft powder overnight, but the snow in the middle had been packed firm by the truck's chassis. As he got some distance from Jim and began to think more clearly, Blair realized that the snow had stopped. He could even see some clear sky near the horizon, lit to a pale grey by the approaching dawn. 

Fifty yards from where the truck had come to rest, Blair reached the steeper slope of the road embankment. He stopped there, breathing heavily. He hadn't been lying when he told Jim he need to pee, so he unzipped his pants, wincing at the blast of cold air. He had shaken himself dry and was about to tuck it away when he realized that it was all gummy. It wasn't just the hand lotion, either; in the dim light, he could just make out a few dark streaks. Blood, or something else -- he didn't even know which would be worse. 

He started to shake. He should have cleaned himself right away. He should never have fucked Jim without a condom -- 

He shouldn't have fucked Jim at all. 

He sagged to his knees in the snow, gasping for breath in air that seemed impossibly thin. How could he have done it? No -- how could Jim have let him? It was Jim's idea. What the hell did the man expect to get out of it? He had pushed and pushed until Blair hardly even knew what he was doing. It wasn't Blair's fault -- no man could control himself under that kind of provocation . . . 

_That's right. Blame the victim,_ said a sardonic voice inside Blair's head. 

No matter what Jim had been expecting, no matter why he had thought it was so important for Blair to fuck him, he hadn't deserved Blair's haste and carelessness. He hadn't deserved the kind of force Blair used on him. He sure as hell hadn't deserved to have his partner _turned on_ by the discovery that Jim wasn't even enjoying himself. 

And it had been a turn-on for Blair, realizing that he was the only one getting any pleasure out of it. Knowing that he was taking instead of giving, for a change. 

_You told him you weren't angry,_ the voice in his head accused. _You told him you understood, that you didn't blame him. But you did blame him -- for Lila and what happened after, for kicking you out of the loft, for chasing after Alex like a cat in heat. You blamed him for all of it, and pretended everything was fine. How many times, how many ways did he say that if you moved out, you would be hurting him? Did you leave him any other option to try to keep you with him?_

Savagely, Blair grabbed up handsful of snow to scrub at the darkness on his cock. His flesh shrank under the icy onslaught, like a symbolic castration. He wanted to continue even after the stickiness was gone, even when the skin was too wrinkled upon itself to clean properly. But he forced himself to tuck the little lump away and clambered to his feet, raising damp cheeks to the sky. 

Hysterics of guilt wouldn't help Jim. Dwelling on the past wouldn't fix anything. Claiming he was unworthy of Jim's friendship, however true, wouldn't do the Sentinel any good. The best he could do was concentrate on being worthy from now on. 

And never so much as _think_ about fucking Jim again. 

As Blair's breathing slowly calmed in the quiet chill of the dawn, he heard something approaching. A rumbling, scraping sound . . . 

He struggled up the slope towards the road. 

* * *

Jim swam up easily from the depths of sleep and began a luxurious stretch \-- only to bang his head against the door of the truck. His eyes popped open, and he remembered where he was. But something was missing. 

_Where the hell is Sandburg?_

He foggily recalled Blair hurrying outside to take care of a little urgent business. But it was freezing out there; he should have come right back. Hell, as easily as the kid got chilled, Jim was surprised he hadn't tried to find a way to piss out the window. 

But Sandburg was gone, and had been for a while, judging from the coolness of the seat behind Jim's back. There was no sound nearby of anyone tramping around or cursing the cold. Becoming alarmed, Jim sat up and extended his senses. 

It only took him a few seconds to home in on Blair's voice -- further away than he should be, but apparently fine. His words were obscured by a deeper, grumbling rattle that Jim finally identified as a diesel engine. He squinted up at the road, realizing that it was beginning to get lighter. Sandburg was gesticulating enthusiastically at the driver of a huge snowplow. 

Jim grinned. Sandburg had the gift of timing -- a dangerous gift, sometimes, when he ended up in the same place at the same time as some killer or mad bomber. But bad or good, it was definitely more than could be explained by chance meetings. Maybe it was that 'cosmic convergence' thing the kid had been chattering about a while back. 

Jim reached for his pants and started to push down the sleeping bag, then froze as he remembered his nakedness. There was a definite ache back there, too; without meaning to, he explored the sensation a little further and detected some small tears in the tender membranes. The burning, the lingering slipperiness, and the sensation of something oozing were just a little more than he wanted to think about right now. He dialed down again quickly. 

It had been worth it, though, if it took care of that 'bond' thing Incacha had been talking about, and got Sandburg to stop insisting he would move out. And in a sense, it was only fair -- Sandburg had probably felt worse than this after Jim had gone primal that one time. 

He delved into the foot of the sleeping bag and found his boxers, only to drop them as the smell of his own semen exploded outward at him. He stuffed them away again with a grimace. Sandburg's boxers were down there too, smelling relatively clean, and Jim hesitated uneasily. He was _not_ in a mood to be chafed by a zipper all day, so he decided wearing his roommate's underwear was the lesser of two evils, and quickly pulled the boxers on, then his pants over them. His own underwear got rolled up haphazardly with the sleeping bag and stuffed behind the seat. The bag would need to be dry-cleaned anyway. 

The snowplow's motor revved up and drove away, and Sandburg came crunching down the slope to the truck. Jim was just tying the laces of his hiking boots as Blair arrived, his cheeks glowing from the cold. 

Blair pulled to a surprised stop as Jim pushed open the door to the truck. "You're awake!" he said with a gasp. His heart was racing -- probably from the exertion of fighting through all that snow. 

"Cavalry on its way?" Jim said. 

"Um, yeah. The plow driver had a radio; he called a wrecker for us. Should be here in about fifteen minutes, he said." 

"Good. Why don't you hop in here and warm up a little, Chief?" Rather than get out to let Sandburg in, Jim slid over to the passenger side and patted the seat beside him. 

Blair flushed. "That's okay, man. All this moving around got my blood circulating, anyway." 

"Sandburg!" Jim growled. "You're shivering. Get in here." 

Blair climbed in and perched on the edge of the seat behind the steering wheel. He didn't meet Jim's eyes. He didn't talk. 

"So how'd you manage to bag a snowplow anyway, Chief?" 

Blair jumped. "Oh, I heard it coming and ran up to the road. Don't need enhanced senses to hear one of those things, huh?" 

Jim grunted, expecting to hear all the details of Sandburg's conversation with the driver, and probably the driver's entire family history as well. But Blair was silent, jiggling one knee up and down as he stared out the windshield. 

Jim frowned at his partner. "Something wrong, Sandburg?" 

"Uh, no." 

"You want your book, or something?" Jim reached down for the backpack tucked somewhere beneath his feet. 

"It's still too dark for me to read. Listen, maybe we should get out and, you know, clear some of the snow away from the truck." 

"Clear it with _what_?" Jim demanded. But Blair was already opening the door and slipping out. 

Shrugging on his own coat, Jim stepped out and watched in bemusement as Sandburg trampled down the snow behind the truck. When that wasn't working fast enough, Blair bent down and started to sweep with his arm, displacing swathes of the white stuff in random directions. Within a minute, Blair was covered in snow and panting heavily. 

"Feel better?" Jim said mildly. 

Blair put both hands on his hips, a triumphant gesture that was marred slightly when the crust under his left foot broke, and he listed over to one side. "You can start up the truck now. The exhaust's clear." He pointed to the pipe sticking out. 

"That's great, Chief, but the tailpipe is split somewhere in the middle, closer to the front of the truck. I could hear it last night. The fumes were coming straight up into the cab." 

Blair's face, already flushed with exertion, turned an angry red. "Well, you could have told me that before!" He staggered around Jim to the cab and climbed back in, dusting the seat liberally with snow. 

"Could I?" Jim mused. He had no idea what bug had gotten into Sandburg's brain, and he wasn't sure he really wanted to know. In any case, he could hear another diesel motor approaching, so he headed up to the road to meet the wrecker. 

It took two hours and a variety of heavy equipment applied in creative ways to get Jim's truck back on the road. He kept thinking that they should leave the truck to the experts and get a deputy to drop them by the road to Chang's cabin -- but it was always 'fifteen minutes' until the truck would be dug out. And in any case, they had some stops to make before they were ready to head for the cabin. 

Once the truck had been dug out, Jim's initial damage assessment turned out to be pretty much correct. The passenger door would have to be replaced, and possibly part of the door frame as well. The front grille was just a little buckled, and the radiator was mostly intact. The exhaust system was pretty much a loss from a spot beneath the driver's seat on back, and the unmuffled engine gave a great roar when Jim started it up. But it ran, and it would get them where they were going, and Jim would worry about repairs _after_ they found Jason and Trevor Chang. He gave his credit card to the owner of the wrecking service, signed without looking at the total, and thanked the three grinning mechanics for their help. Then he bundled Sandburg into the truck and drove off. 

They followed Uncle David's directions to the bottom of the unpaved, unplowed road leading up to the Chang cabin. Just as the deputy had said last night, there was no car parked there. But Jim saw something else. 

"Chang was here," he said decisively. "See the tire tracks?" 

"Um . . . no." Blair frowned at the white-covered path. "It looks smooth to me." 

"It's level, but there's two lines of fresh snow, and on either side it's older, yellowy stuff. It just lies differently. You don't see that?" 

"Jim, there's four inches of new snow on top of whatever was there before. No, I don't see it!" 

"Okay, Chief, take it easy. Anyway --" He squinted. "I can see chrome up there through the trees. Chang didn't get far before he had to leave the car. Probably won't get it out of there until August." He threw the truck into reverse. 

"Where are we going?" Blair protested. "Aren't we going after them?" 

"Sure, but we need some supplies." Jim steered them back into Newhalem. 

It was definitely a one-horse town, the kind of place where you only had to park once to visit the post office, bank, gas station, and grocery store. But there was a smattering of tourist trade, and a few shops catering to seasonal recreational activities -- including a ski shop. 

While Jim checked out the rates on renting two pairs of cross-country skis, Blair sorted quickly through some overpriced clothes. "How's this?" he said, holding up a sky-blue sweatshirt with stylized embroidery of Mt. Challenger on it. 

Jim sighed. "Don't you have enough layers already, Sandburg?" 

"Not for me, man! Your sweater got dunked in gasoline and then probably frozen to the bed of your truck. You need something besides that light shirt." 

Jim blinked. He hadn't really thought about his clothes. "Fine. Set it aside and come pick out some ski boots that fit you." He pretended not to notice that Blair snagged some underwear on the way to the cash register. 

When the skis were packed in the back of the truck, Blair shoved a shopping bag at Jim and cocked his head towards the gas station. "They have a public restroom. Go in there and change." 

"Sandburg, I don't need a restroom just to put on a damn sweater!" Jim reached into the bag and froze. 

"Not the sweater, the _boxers_!" Blair hissed under his breath. "I got a pair for me too. I'll be right behind you." He shifted his hips uncomfortably. "This is _not_ my favorite mode of dress, if you get my drift -- and I'm definitely not going cross-country skiing without some protection." 

Jim was even more surprised when he got into the men's room and pulled out the purchases, only to find that the two pair of boxers included one silk and one cotton. He handed the cotton ones over to Blair and headed for a stall. Inside, he pulled off the pair he had stolen from Blair and stuffed them guiltily back into the bag. He felt bad enough about taking them; he would have been mortified to have asked -- but he felt even worse now that Blair had been so casually considerate. 

It was nearly noon by the time they were geared up and ready to go, with the truck parked at the bottom of the snowy road. Jim had some basic camping supplies strapped to his back. Nothing fancy, but he had rolled up the sleeping bag and placed it on top of the pile, after stuffing the soiled underwear into a plastic bag. Sandburg's pack held a first aid kit, bottled water and some trail mix. If the Changs weren't at the cabin, they could get back to the truck within a couple of hours. If they did find the cabin occupied, they would have to decide what to do based on Jason Chang's level of resistance. Jim checked his gun surreptitiously and slipped two extra clips into his pack. 

They got moving slowly, until their muscles recalled particular rhythm and swing needed to keep their skis gliding smoothly over the fresh snow. A hundred yards from the main road, their path took a sharp turn and headed obliquely up the slopes of the mountain. It was here that the car had been abandoned, a white hatchback almost invisible in the snowy surroundings. 

"It's Jason Chang's," Blair announced, brushing snow from the license plate. 

"And he had the kid with him," Jim added. "Baby seat in the car, and some other stuff, too. He didn't take all the diapers." 

Blair frowned. "Is the car locked? We might need some of those diapers." 

Jim made a face, more at the thought of needing diapers than at the legal violation involved in opening the car. But he checked and found the back hatch open. Looking at Blair, he shrugged. No one was going to see them. 

Blair crawled halfway in, his skis waving awkwardly, and pulled some bags from the back seat within reach. "I guess he couldn't take all their clothes and food and stuff _and_ carry the baby." 

Jim shrugged. "Looks like he managed to take most of it. That manic energy must be good for something." 

Blair opened a pack of diapers and stuffed some into his pack, then sorted quickly through what remained. "Apple juice . . ." 

"Too heavy." 

"We might need it, man. Cookies -- forget those. Animal crackers, potato chips --" 

"Bananas," Jim said, wrinkling his nose. 

"Just the peels. A couple cans of soup." Blair tossed those to Jim, who reluctantly pulled off his pack and started making room. "What else? Some baby clothes. I'll take one change just in case." 

"Sandburg, it's more important for us to get there soon than to be prepared for every possible little detail." 

"I'm ready, I'm ready!" Blair shrugged on his pack and hopped back down onto his skis. "Let's go. You remember how to go uphill on these things?" 

"Yeah, start by not being overbalanced." Jim grabbed the bottle of apple juice out of the top of Blair's pack and worked it down to the bottom of his own. "Let's go. How long is this road?" 

"Between two and three miles, according to Jason's uncle. Then another quarter to a half mile for the driveway up to the cabin." 

It was a pleasant exercise, at first. The day was partly sunny and the temperature in the fifties. Despite the half-melted snow dripping from the trees, young birds cheeped hungrily in their nests. Ever since the long flight back from Sierra Verde, Jim had been longing for a chance to stretch his legs and put his muscles to work. It felt good to be moving, even if the air was thin enough to burn in their lungs and force them to take frequent rests. 

The only shadow on the day was Blair's silence. At first it seemed like an opportunity for Jim to extend his senses, concentrating on all the life in the woods around them. He saw deer through the trees, and a fox regarded them suspiciously from further up the path before darting away. Birds and squirrels went about the business of spring all around them. But after a while, an anxious stare began to sear Jim's shoulder blades, right through the pack he was wearing. He lost the rhythm of his strides for a moment, and felt the stare grow more intense. 

" _What!_ " he demanded, twisting to snap at Sandburg. 

Blair gulped. "Just thinking," he said quickly. 

"If you want to say something, just say it!" 

Blair swung his legs more quickly, coming up beside Jim. "I was thinking, well . . . maybe, if you think it's okay, I should stay in the loft. Not move out." 

"I told you it was okay," Jim grumbled. "How many times do I need to say it?" 

"Fine. So . . . I'll stick around." 

"Fine," Jim echoed, and for a while there was more of that uncomfortable silence. "So what made you change your mind?" he asked at last, just to be making noise. 

Blair shrugged, head bowed as he tried to balance the pack on his back. "Well, yesterday, you said you just started having trouble with your senses recently. I wondered . . . did it start when I said I would be moving out? Do you think it's connected?" 

"Hmmph. Maybe." 

"I, um . . . I had a dream last night." 

A flood of heat rushed over Jim's face as he remembered what he had been dreaming last night. Sandburg had woken him from it. He knew he shouted, sometimes, in those dreams . . . what had Blair heard? 

"Incacha was there." 

The air rushed out of Jim's lungs. One of _those_ dreams. That wasn't quite so bad. "Wait. You dreamed about Incacha?" 

"Yeah. It's not the first time." 

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about this?" 

"I did, after the first dream, and you said it didn't mean anything -- it was just a dream." 

"But you've had others since then?" 

"Uh-huh. Lots. Anytime I'm, um, worried." 

"About me." 

"Well . . . yeah." 

"So did he say something? Last night?" 

"I didn't understand it all." 

"Sounds typical." 

"What does, um, _runallin_ mean?" 

Jim lost his rhythm and nearly overbalanced. "He speaks _Quechua_? In your dreams?" 

"Yeah. So what does it mean?" 

Jim swallowed and picked up his pace again. "Runa allin. It means 'empty woman.' Incacha uses it to refer to --" 

"-- Alex. I gathered. What about . . . uh, what was it? _Chaupipi_. We needed to finish it, whatever it was." 

"Dammit, don't tell me he told you all that, too!" 

"Well, yeah -- what do you mean 'too?'" 

Jim studied the path in front of his skis. "I dreamed about Incacha last night, too." 

"You mean we had the same dream?" 

Jim frowned. "You weren't in my dream. And part of it was just old memories anyway. Incacha and I were on the steps of a sort of temple \-- not the Temple of Light; this one was smaller. A lot of my dreams start there. Do you . . . is it the same for you?" 

Blair shook his head. "My dreams with Incacha are usually around a campfire. So what did he say to you? Was it the same stuff about finishing whatever-it-is?" 

Jim was silent. 

"Come on man, this is important! If we both had the same dream, it's something I need to know!" 

Jim sighed. "Incacha told me we needed to complete our bond. I needed to accept you fully, or you couldn't keep guiding me." 

Blair actually did overbalance, and only Jim's quick grab prevented him from wrenching a knee by falling the wrong way. Blair pulled free even before he had steadied himself. "You mean that's why --? Shit!" He started swooshing up the path at double speed. "Shit!" 

Jim hurried to catch up. "Sandburg, what --" 

"That's why you did it, isn't it?" Blair demanded, sliding to a halt. "That's why you let me . . . because of something a dead guy said to you in a dream!" 

Jim stared. "Just yesterday, Chief, you told me Incacha was the perfect Guide for me _because_ he's dead. Anyway, you listened to your dream too, didn't you?" 

"Shit!" Blair spat out, and took off again. 

Jim followed doggedly. "Chief, I don't get why you're so upset about this." 

"You hated it, that's why! You hated every minute of it, but you didn't tell me, because of a goddamn dream!" 

"Well . . ." Jim didn't know what to say to that. "It worked, didn't it?" 

Blair threw him a quick, suspicious glance, still skiing for all he was worth. "What do you mean, worked?" 

"My senses are fine today. No spikes. And you finally got the message about not moving out. You're going to keep guiding me, right? So it worked. It was worth it." 

" _Worth_ it!" Blair hissed under his breath. 

"And it was . . . well, I mean, it seemed like it was only fair. After . . . before." 

"Which 'before,' Jim? Are you talking about 'before,' after Lila? Or 'before,' when you kicked me out? Or 'before,' when you were playing suck-face with the woman who killed me?" 

Jim flinched. 

"You think I wanted your ass in payment? You think it would make me feel better, making you feel awful?" 

The day seemed much colder, all of a sudden. "You seemed to enjoy it at the time." 

" _Shit_!" Blair's voice cracked on the angry word, and he swung his legs harder. 

Jim had to stretch to keep up. "Look, Sandburg . . . I didn't mean it to turn out that way. I was just . . . I mean, you needed more, and I felt bad about that time after Lila, and it just seemed . . . I don't know -- fair, somehow." 

"Jim, there's a critical difference there. What happened after Lila \-- I _enjoyed_ that. It was good for me, even if it was a little --" 

"Non-consensual?" Jim suggested. 

"Unexpected." Blair slowed enough to glare at Jim. "So it's not the same thing, okay? Get that through your head. And I don't like the idea of sex as payment for _anything_." 

"I didn't mean it like that, Sandburg! Dammit, you make it sound like prostitution or something. It just seemed like the right thing to do, especially after what I dreamed. And anyway, it wasn't that bad. Just a little . . ." 

"Excruciating?" 

"Uncomfortable," Jim corrected. "But it seemed like it was fun for you." 

Blair slid to a stop and closed his eyes. "Jim, if you _ever_ do that again -- if you ever push me into something you know you'll hate, when you _know_ I'm not thinking straight . . ." He trailed off, apparently unable to think of an appropriate threat. After a few deep breaths, he started again. "Okay. I did enjoy it, and I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry I wasn't paying close enough attention to realize how much you were hurting. I'm sorry I ever let you think you did something you needed to pay me back for. And now I don't want to talk about it anymore. Okay?" 

Jim opened his mouth. 

"Anyway, I think this is the turnoff for the cabin." Blair pointed to a narrower path leading off to the side, barely wide enough for a car to pass at all. "A quarter mile to go, and I don't think we should be arguing when we get there." 

Jim clenched his teeth. Sandburg was right. And it wasn't as if Jim _liked_ talking about things like this. But it would have to be hashed out sooner or later -- just not right now. "Okay. I think --" He froze, lifting his nose to the air. 

"What is it?" 

"Blood. I smell blood." Jim started twisting out of his pack. "Stay back, Chief, until I find out what's going on." 

"I'm right behind you, man," Blair said, as if that were agreement. He retrieved Jim's pack and slung it awkwardly from one shoulder. 

Unburdened, Jim sped ahead up the twisting drive. He slowed as he came to the edge of the clearing within sight of the cabin. It wasn't a cabin in the old rough-hewn-log sense, but more of a small wood-frame house with a tin roof and minimal insulation. The snow in front of the house was heavily tracked, and a large snowbeing of some kind sprouted there, its features blurred by successive thaws and the previous night's new snow. The place seemed peaceful enough, but Jim could still smell blood. Not a lot of blood, but it wouldn't take a lot to be a serious injury if the kid was involved. 

There was one heartbeat -- an adult's -- coming from somewhere behind the building. It was accompanied by harsh breathing verging on sobs. 

Jim moved in a little closer before disconnecting his boots from the skis. The snow was still a good two feet deep here, but he was more worried that the skis would keep him from moving freely than that the snow would slow him down. If he stuck to the path broken by boots tramping around the house -- including some very fresh prints -- he should be able to move quickly enough. And he could crouch or crawl if necessary, with both hands free to hold his weapon. 

Unholstering the gun, he crept around the corner of the cabin. His senses were on full alert, even though he had already pinpointed the source of the blood and the sobs. He rounded the building, leading with his gun. 

A slender Asian man sat in the snow at the rear of the house. His legs were folded beneath him as if they had simply given way, and he was hunched in on himself. The blood was coming from the man's hand, Jim realized in relief, and not from some mutilated child's corpse. A small hatchet and a couple of split logs nearby completed the picture. 

"Jason Chang?" Jim demanded, moving into the open. 

The man's head moved listlessly. 

"Let me see your hands," Jim barked. He knew there was no weapon there, but the training was ingrained. 

Chang held out his bloody left hand, with his right clamped tightly around the wrist. 

Jim tucked his gun away and moved the hatchet out of Chang's reach, bending down to get a better look at the injury. It was messy but not dangerous; looked like the man had clipped part of the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Can you move your thumb?" he said, watching the digit twitch tentatively. "What about your fingers? Fine. You probably ought to get some stitches in that, but that isn't an option right now." He glanced up at the sound of skis rushing closer. 

"Doesn't matter," Chang mumbled. 

Blair peeked around the corner, then quickly skied up to them. He had already dropped Jim's pack somewhere, and he shrugged his own off to get at the first aid kit. 

"Jason?" Blair said carefully. "I'm Blair Sandburg. This is Jim Ellison. We used to work with Serena. She sent us up here because she was worried about you." 

Chang just watched dispassionately as Jim started to swab at his cut hand with antiseptic. He didn't even seem to feel the sting. Was he numb from the cold, or just too depressed to care? 

"Jason, is Trevor here? Is he okay?" 

Chang lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think he's dying." 

Blair drew in a sharp breath. "Where is he?" 

"It's so cold. And there wasn't any wood for the fire. I tried to cut some more . . ." 

"Jason, _where is Trevor_?" 

"Doesn't matter, really." Chang's voice was slurred, which could indicate exhaustion or hypothermia. "We're all dying anyway." 

Jim pressed a hand against the man's torso and confirmed that his temperature was dangerously low. "He's hypothermic, Chief -- we can't expect to get any sense out of him." He focused his hearing on the house. "I think the kid's inside, but his heartbeat is really faint." 

"Get born, live, die . . . what's the point?" Chang went on. 

Blair disconnected his skis and clumped hastily towards the front door of the house. 

Since Chang's hand was still bleeding sluggishly, Jim gave up his attempts to clean the wound and quickly wrapped it in several layers of gauze. "All right, Chang," he said sharply. "Up on your feet. You need to get inside." 

The man looked up at him apathetically. "Why?" 

Jim bit off an impatient retort, knowing the cold was making the man irrational. "For starters, I'm placing you under arrest, and that means you go where I tell you to. Now stand up!" 

Chang complied clumsily, stumbling through the snow as Jim led him around the cabin with a hand clamped around his arm. He had to be half-carried up the steps to the porch, then he stood dumbly near the door as soon as Jim let him go. 

Jim had been unconsciously following Sandburg's movements through the house, and had heard Blair's distressed gasp from the small bedroom at the back. "Chief? You find the kid?" 

"In here, Jim. He isn't dead, but . . ." 

Jim paused in the bedroom doorway, taking in his partner crouched over a tiny form tucked among a mound of blankets on the bed. Little Trevor's face was pale and waxy, his breathing shallow. His heart was beating about 90 times a minute. Jim wasn't entirely sure how fast it should be in a baby of that age, but he suspected that was too slow. 

"Has he responded to you at all?" Jim knelt by the bed and placed a hand on the boy's forehead. 

"He sort of opened his eyes when I touched him, but he didn't really focus on me. What's his temperature?" 

Jim shook his head. "You tested me on fevers, Chief -- _your_ fever. I'm not really sure how accurate I am with a temperature this low. Ninety-two, maybe? But the important thing is mental state. If he responded to you at all, even for a few seconds, that's a good sign. We have to get him warmed up, but handle him carefully -- hypothermia plus rough handling can make his heart stop." 

Blair gulped. "Warm him how? Is there a bath --" 

"No bath. That would be too sudden -- same effect as rough handling. Anyway, I doubt this place has hot water. Open your coat, Chief, and tuck him in close to you." 

"Why me?" Blair demanded, even as he unzipped. "You've got a higher base temperature, and more body mass to warm him with." 

"Number one: he stinks. We can't do anything about that until he's warmer, so you get to put up with it." 

"Thanks a lot, man." Blair unbuttoned his shirt for good measure, then lifted the little boy carefully and cradled him close. 

"Good. Get him right in there. And cover his head; babies lose a lot of heat that way. The other reason you get to do this is that I'm going to be dealing with Chang and trying to get some heat in this place." Jim tucked the baby in closer and zipped up Blair's jacket halfway. 

Blair glanced around. "It doesn't seem _that_ cold." 

"It's in the fifties -- but that's barely warmer than outside, right now. The question is how long they've been without heat. If they didn't have a fire during that storm last night . . ." Jim tromped out to the front room, the weight of his boots reminding him that he also needed to pick up their skis and the packs they had abandoned outside. "Chang. How long ago did you run out of firewood?" 

The man looked at him stupidly. 

Jim sighed and pulled forward a wooden rocking chair, grabbing some notebooks from the seat and dropping them on the lone paper-strewn table. "Sit down and pay attention." He leaned forward to get in the man's face. "I need to know if you had a fire last night. Was it this cold then?" 

Chang blinked slowly. "It was cold," he said at last. "I tried to go get wood, but I couldn't see, and I dropped the flashlight in the snow. . ." 

"Great," Jim muttered. No wonder the kid was in such a bad state. 

"I held Trevor, tried to keep him warm, but . . ." Chang looked dully at the chill iron of the woodstove. 

"All right," Jim growled. "Just stay right there and don't touch anything. You've caused enough trouble already." 

Jim applied himself to the firewood problem first, quickly splitting three logs and carrying the pieces in to build a fire. Within five minutes, he had a good blaze started. Then he went back out to retrieve their packs and prop the skis under the porch overhang, next to Chang's pair. 

He came back in to find Blair hovering anxiously over the woodstove, soaking up every erg of heat he could absorb for the sake of the boy in his arms. 

"Any improvement?" Jim asked. 

"I don't know, man. He moved a little, but then he went still again." 

Jim hands were chilled, so he kept them away from the boy, but he tuned in his other senses. "Give it time. His heartbeat's already a little faster, and I think his color is improving." He headed for the kitchen. 

The water had to be pumped up from a well; Chang had let the cistern empty sometime in the last few days. Fortunately it seemed that the pipes, unlike the rest of the house, were insulated, because Jim's pumping drew a trickle within a few minutes. He filled the cistern and then let the kitchen sink run a little to clear out the pipes. 

There was no electricity at the moment, but the food Chang had brought didn't need refrigeration. Jim checked out the condensed milk and made a face. They wouldn't tempt a sick baby with that stuff. He rummaged through his pack for the apple juice, grateful his partner had insisted on bringing it. It was loaded with sugar, too, which the kid probably needed. Jim set a cup of apple juice to warm on the woodstove in a pan of water. 

"Chang, when's the last time you ate?" he asked. Getting no response, he repeated sharply, "Chang!" 

The man in the rocking chair looked up at Jim with teary eyes. 

"Oh, for -- When's the last time you and the kid had anything to eat?" 

"Don't remember," the man said dully, and went back to staring at Blair and the baby. 

Too irritated to be polite, Jim stuck his hand down the collar of Chang's shirt to check his core body temperature. The man wasn't _that_ cold; Jim was beginning to suspect his behavior had more to do with depression than hypothermia. Leaving Chang to wallow in misery, he opened a can of soup and set that on the stove as well. 

"How we doin' there, Chief?" he asked, checking the apple juice with a finger. 

"He's moving more, and he made a little noise," Blair reported. 

"Good. You think you could get him to drink a little in a few minutes? I'll see if I can find a straw, or a bottle or something." 

"I don't know, Jim, he's not exactly lively yet." 

"Well, if we can get him warmed up and get some sugar into him, then maybe he'll perk up a little." 

Blair wrinkled his nose. "Maybe then we can think about changing his diapers?" 

Jim gulped. "I guess. Once the house warms up a little." He hesitated, glancing at Chang's listless form. "You'd think Chang would at least feed the kid, even if he was too stupid to eat for himself." 

"Give him a break, Jim. Studies on depression have shown that it affects the IQ, blunts the perception of cold and hunger, _and_ distorts the passage of time." 

"Well, that's just great, Chief, but he wasn't depressed when he grabbed the kid. Trevor could have died." Jim studied the boy's head where it poked out of Blair's shirt. "Sandburg, you know anything about changing diapers?" 

Blair's eyes widened. "What, something the great Jim Ellison doesn't know how to do?" 

"It hasn't exactly come up as a necessary skill so far in my life." 

Blair chuckled. "Well, it can't be much harder than putting diapers on a Barbary Ape. I'm sure we can figure out --" He was interrupted by a thin wail from the region of his chest. 

"There we go," Jim said in relief. "Somebody's starting to feel better." 

"He doesn't sound like he feels better," Blair said as the cries grew in intensity. 

Jim shrugged. "The way I understand it, a noisy baby is usually healthier than a quiet baby. At least we know he's breathing." 

"Yep, those lungs seem to work just fine," Blair agreed with a wince. 

"Let's try that apple juice now." 

The kid was not going to be so easily placated. He was miserable, and he wanted everyone to know about it. They did manage to get half the cup of juice into him, after which Jim judged it was safe to bring him out of Blair's coat and change him in front of the warm stove. That also gave them a chance to check the boy's fingers and toes -- all free of frostbite, fortunately. 

But even with clean diapers and a bottle of juice in his hand, the kid kept crying. After a couple of hours, as relieved as he was that the boy was recovering, Jim was definitely starting to feel the strain. They had even tried Blair's suggestion of letting Chang hold the baby on his lap while trying to get some soup into him, but Trevor wept on and on. 

"What are we gonna do, man?" Blair murmured to Jim as they conferred in the kitchen. "Should we head back to the truck?" 

Jim shook his head regretfully, wincing as the boy hit a particularly piercing note. "Neither of them is up to that trip just now, and there's only a couple hours left until sunset anyway. We'll have to stick it out for the night and head down tomorrow morning." 

"Stick it out -- through _that_?" Blair waved at the screaming boy. "There isn't even any electricity here. We won't have any lights!" 

"I know, I know! Dammit, Sandburg, how do you think _I_ feel about it?" 

"With your hearing? Must be driving you crazy," Blair judged. 

"So if I can put up with it, so can you." Jim sighed. "I'll try cheering him up again. He can't be having much fun with Daddy, there." 

"Jim, wait." Blair laid a hand on his arm. "We need to talk, man." 

"What, _now_?" 

"You said it yourself, we're gonna be stuck here all night. Look, I just wanted to say --" 

"Is this really the time or place?" 

"Give me a chance, man! You don't even know what I was about to say. It'll just take a second. I think we should . . . you know, decide to . . . well, _not_ to . . ." 

"Spit it out, Sandburg!" 

"I think we're better off if we just stick to being friends and partners. You know what I mean?" 

"No, I don't know. Do you always have to talk in riddles?" 

"I mean, no sex, man!" he hissed. "It's only gotten us into trouble, every time. We should leave it alone. We'll be better off without it." 

Jim squinted at his partner. What trouble had the sex caused this time, aside from the strange mood Sandburg seemed to be in? 

"So that's all I wanted to say. We're, um, getting low on wood. I'd better go chop some more before it gets dark." 

"Sandburg, wait! What trouble? Chief --" Jim was left standing at the door, unwilling to leave Chang alone with the boy he had kidnapped. And Blair knew it, too. The little hippie was avoiding him. Talk . . . don't talk. Discuss your feelings, not mine. Sandburg was always like that, and it drove Jim right up the proverbial wall. 

With nothing else to do, Jim applied himself to spreading blankets on the floor in front of the stove. The fire was probably supposed to heat the whole house, but not much of the warmth was reaching the bedroom in back. Chang, and especially the boy, would need some real warmth for at least the next few hours, until their body temperatures stabilized. 

Those two would get the mattress and their own sleeping bag, which meant that Jim and Blair would be sharing once again. The thought made Jim grimace. It didn't make things any easier when he unrolled the bag and was hit with a solid wall of aroma, all of it pure sex. He glanced at Chang in embarrassment, afraid even a normal nose could detect it. But the man was silent and still, mechanically patting the screaming baby on his lap. 

"Here, give him to me," Jim said. "Maybe I can get a little soup into him." He rocked and dandled the boy and hummed to him until Trevor's cries dropped to an exhausted grizzling against Jim's shoulder. 

* * *

Blair took considerable pleasure in venting his feelings on the wood stacked behind the house. He swung the small axe and split the fat logs into smaller chunks again and again, letting the exertion warm him until there was enough fuel at his feet to keep the stove going for several weeks. Eventually he admitted it was past time to stop, and he leaned the axe against the chopping block, his breath coming in short puffs as he watched the sun sink below the trees. 

He found a little leather sheath for the axe blade, and a spot to hang it under the porch. He was guessing Jim wouldn't want a potential weapon inside with them. Then he added most of the wood he'd chopped to the top of the pile against the back wall of the house, and carried a single armload inside. 

Jim had pushed most of Jason Chang's papers and notebooks off the single table and sat Trevor there while he coaxed some soup and crackers into the little boy's mouth. Trevor had stopped crying for the moment, Blair noticed in relief, although the boy didn't look very happy. Jim paid no notice as Blair pushed through the door and kicked the snow from his boots. 

He dumped his pile of wood near the stove, brushing the splinters from his sweater. Jim had set up some beds on the floor; it looked to Blair like an uncomfortable sleeping arrangement, in more ways than one. He glanced around at the dimness of the place and turned to Jason Chang, who was staring sightlessly across the room. Definite lack of affect, Blair noted: a classic sign of depression. 

"Jason," he said gently. "Are there any lanterns or anything here?" 

After a long moment, Jason's head moved slowly up and down. "In the pantry . . ." 

"Good!" Blair said enthusiastically. 

" . . . But we're out of kerosene." 

Blair sighed. "Not so good." 

"There are candles in the drawer . . ." Jason half-lifted a hand in the general direction of the kitchen. 

"Great, thanks." Blair picked out two candles and lit them at the stove, adding some more wood while he was there. As yet, the small flames couldn't compete with the fading sunlight -- but soon enough they would be the only light in the cabin. 

Brushing the papers off the table, Blair set up the candles in a couple of over-large holders, praying they would stay steady. When they didn't topple over, he bent and began to gather the papers into a half-organized sheaf, glancing over them as he did so. It looked like Serena had hit the nail on the head; the notebook pages were covered with hastily-scrawled poetry and rough sketches: buildings, landscapes, animals, and a few dozen drawings of Trevor. They were pretty good, capturing the boy and the other subjects in just a few quick lines of ink. The poetry ranged from haiku to some sort of epic that rambled on for pages. Blair couldn't tell if it was any good, because the handwriting was nearly illegible. He tapped the papers together anyway, figuring there might be something valuable there, and set both the notebooks and the loose sheets into a single stack. 

Jason was watching him. "They're no good, are they?" he asked dully. 

"Uh . . . I'm not sure." Blair waved at the darkening window. "I can't really see too well just now. But maybe we could take a closer look in the morning." 

"Why bother? I know none of it's any good. My stuff never is. I should have burned it last night when we needed the heat." 

Blair winced. "A bunch of paper wouldn't have burned very long. Why don't you give it a little time, then come back and look at it all later? There might be something here you want to save." 

Jason sighed heavily. "I'm not going to have a chance to come back, am I? He said I'm under arrest." One shoulder lifted in the direction of Jim, who was still engrossed with the baby. 

"Well, we do have to take you back to Seattle, and after that I guess they'll figure out where you need to go. But so long as Trevor hasn't come to any harm, my guess is they'll go easy on you." 

"Right," Jason drawled, too weary to give any bite to the sarcasm. 

"You do know you need to see a doctor, don't you? You can't go on like this. You and Trevor could have died if we hadn't found you." 

"What difference does it make? Nobody would even notice I was gone. Except for the people who'd be glad." 

"Serena wouldn't be glad. She still cares about you. And so does your Uncle David. I talked to him last night, and he was really worried. And what about Trevor? Don't you think he'd miss you?" 

"He doesn't even know me. They're going to tell me I can't see him any more, and he'll forget I ever existed." 

"Come on, man. Once you get well again, if you're serious about staying on your medications, you can probably get some visitation rights. Trevor isn't going to forget his own father --" 

Jason's gaze wandered away. "Just leave me alone. I don't have the energy to deal with lies now." 

Blair straightened up. "Great," he muttered under his breath. "You're welcome, man. It was the least I could do." He turned to Jim with a sigh, noting that it was nearly dark outside. "How's Trevor doing?" 

Jim was rocking the baby against his shoulder and rubbing the tiny back. "I think he's getting sleepy, Chief. He took half a bowl of soup and two crackers." 

"Well, that's good." 

"Yeah. I think he'll be okay. He's got a runny nose and a little bit of a cough, but if we get him to a doctor tomorrow I'm hoping he should be fine. Right now, let's get him tucked in. Chang!" He raised his voice as if Jason were hard of hearing. "Come over here and lie down on the mattress. Then you can hold the kid and keep him warm." 

Moving as slowly as an arthritic old man, Jason stretched out on the low bed. Blair had to help him get his shoes off and pull up the blankets. He wondered a moment about Jason's jeans, but decided the man was probably too tired to care what he slept in. Jason took the baby in his arms and pressed his cheek against the downy head. In the firelight, Blair could see tears tracking down the cheeks of the father as he held his son. 

Swallowing hard, Blair picked up a candle and moved into the kitchen. Jim was in there too, collecting week-old dirty dishes and putting them in the sink. Blair wasn't sure if the detective was trying to avoid him, or the weepy kidnapper. 

Jim made a face at a can of tomato soup. "Care for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?" 

"Yum," said Blair unenthusiastically. "Do I get some apple juice too?" 

"No, that's for the kid." Jim glowered at the condensed milk. 

Blair sighed. "I guess water's good enough for me." 

"That stuff is hard enough to dance on, Sandburg. I can taste a dozen different minerals in it." 

"Really? Which minerals?" 

Jim just shot him a dark look and stared out the window. "I suppose I could melt some snow, but it's probably just as bad . . ." 

"If you're that thirsty, man, go for the apple juice. Trevor isn't going to drink the whole bottle before we get out of here tomorrow." 

"I suppose . . ." 

Blair brushed past Jim and pulled out the makings for the sandwiches. "We should talk," he said, surprising himself. 

"Great," Jim muttered. "The pendulum swings again." 

"Huh?" 

"Nothing." He twisted the cap off the juice with unnecessary violence. 

Blair swallowed hard. "Look, I'm sorry I ran out on you earlier. I just -- I was . . . well, anyway, if you want to talk now, I'm here." With jerky movements, he spread peanut butter over two slabs of bread. 

"Is there a point?" Jim said, checking cupboards until he found two clean cups and filling them with apple juice. 

" _What_?" Blair gaped. "Of course there's a point. We should work this out. Together. I mean, do you want me to make decisions like this unilaterally?" He wrestled with the glued-on top of the jelly jar. 

Jim barked a laugh -- short and harsh. "Sandburg . . ." He paused to guzzle half his juice, then seemed to pick something else to say. "I don't think it matters what we decide, or you decide, or whatever." He reached for the jelly jar, and Blair elbowed him away. 

"Why wouldn't it matter?" he asked, squeezing the cap of the jar until his hand ached. 

"Because, decisions have nothing to do with it. You think we _decided_ to do what we did last night?" Jim glanced nervously toward the living room and lowered his voice. "It just happened. Same with . . . the other times. You want me to get that?" He held out a hand again. 

"No, I got it." The cap was budging at last, slowly. Blair glanced at Jim's empty cup on the counter and slid the second cup of juice over. "There, take it." 

"No, that's yours." 

"I don't want it. I'm not as thirsty as you. Anyway, the water tastes fine to me, and it's not going to kill me or anything." Blair started spreading jelly onto new bread slices, using the same knife. 

"Sandburg, you're getting peanut butter in the jelly jar!" 

"Well, this is Jason's jelly, and he can't see microscopic flecks of peanut butter. Anyway, I'm going to be washing all those dishes with my bare hands in ice-cold water, and I don't feel like adding another knife to the collection. Will you just drink your juice?" 

Jim clapped two of the half-sandwiches together and began to chew, without benefit of a plate. 

Blair clapped the lids back on the peanut butter, the jelly, and the juice. "I think it does matter what we decide," he said to his own sandwich. "Don't you think half the trouble we've had so far is that we just . . . let it go, instead of figuring out what would be the best thing to do?" 

Jim snorted. "Right. So you're just going to say 'no' next time I--" He cut himself off and gulped at the juice. 

"Next time you what?" Blair demanded. _Need a massage? Zone out on death and grief? Dream about Incacha?_

"Next time I need you." 

A shiver went up Blair's spine at the vulnerability in his partner's voice. 

Jim shook his head and went on more roughly. "You think you can say 'no' anytime I even crook my finger? You've wanted me from the beginning, Sandburg -- I saw it in your journal. This . . . thing between us is exactly what you've been pushing for all along, isn't it?" 

"I haven't pushed!" Blair protested. "Except for that one time. I promised to give you space. You were the one who . . ." His brain caught up with Jim's words. "What do you mean, you saw my journal?" 

Jim froze, and even in the candlelight Blair could see guilt flash across the detective's face, before it was covered by a blanket of indifference. "You told me about it," he said. "When you were in the hospital, that time you got shot. You were babbling on about how you showed your journals to Sam --" 

"That's not what you said, man. You said you _saw_ it. Now I know I never showed my journals to you. Not even when I was delirious." 

Jim chewed on the last of his sandwich. 

"What the hell is this, man?" Blair hissed. "It's not enough that you can hear my heartbeat, and smell every time I get turned on --" 

"You make it sound like I spy on you!" 

"What the hell would you call it? You look at my dissertation after I specifically asked you not to, and now I find out you did the same thing more than a year ago with my private journals! And you never even told me! What the hell _is_ that?" 

"Chief, it wasn't like that. You told me about the journals, told me that I was in them, and I just . . ." 

"Couldn't resist the temptation, huh?" Blair tossed his half-eaten sandwich on the counter, appetite gone. "Maybe I had it right the first time. I _should_ move out. I mean, I always figured there's no such thing as privacy when I'm living with a man who can name my last three meals just from smelling what I fart, but I thought at least you would respect my _space_!" 

"Give me a break, Sandburg. Anytime I try to tune you out, you complain that I'm not paying attention to you! Make up your mind and stick with it." 

Blair shook his head. "Jim, man -- you know everything about me. Everything. I was always open with you except for a few small things I wanted to keep private -- and you trampled those boundaries anyway." 

"Oh, please. It wasn't like the journals were any big revelation, anyway. I must have had half a dozen people tell me you were in love with me before that." 

Blair gave his partner a look of dislike and went on as if Jim had never spoken. "And how much do I know about you? I didn't know you had a brother until we ran into him. Even today, I don't know what happened to your mother. You said you couldn't remember Peru, just so you'd have an excuse not to tell me about it. You never even told me you'd been ra--" He snapped his mouth shut so quickly that he bit his tongue. 

Even in the warm glow of the candle, Jim paled visibly. There was a long silence. 

"Maybe that was just one small thing I wanted to keep private," Jim said, his eyes narrowing. "But I didn't need to tell you, did I? You found out anyway, just like you learned my PIN number and my medical history and any other damn thing you wanted to know." 

"Jim . . ." Blair's throat was suddenly dry. 

Jim rubbed a hand across his face. "What, was I talking in my sleep last night?" 

"You . . . not much. Just enough for me to get the picture." 

Jim's gaze slid away toward the dark corner of the room. "Couldn't you just tune it out, Chief? Show a little respect for my personal space?" He still spoke mildly, but Blair knew how much anger lurked behind that quiet chill. 

"It's not the same!" Blair protested, and heard the absurdity in his own words. "Okay. Okay, point taken. But . . ." 

Jim shook his head. "No. I . . . enough talk, okay? I don't want to deal with this right now." 

Blair stopped mid-protest with his mouth half open, caught between the sense that Jim _should_ talk about it and the knowledge that he'd already invaded the man's privacy more than enough. 

Jim turned toward the sink and started running water over the stack of dishes piled there. Evidently Jason had been first too busy and later too depressed to worry about such trivia. 

"Jim, I was going to do those --" 

The Sentinel glowered into the sink. "I got them, Sandburg. Go lie down; you had even less sleep than I did last night." 

Blair gulped. "Okay. I . . . look, if you do want to talk about it--" 

"I just told you, I _don't_." 

"But if you ever do. I mean, any time. I mean . . ." 

"Fine. I know where to find you. Now get some rest, Chief." 

Blair wandered into the front room and stood there uncertainly, staring at the sleeping arrangements. Jason and Trevor were curled up on a small foam mattress near the woodstove; Jim had spread the sleeping bag and some blankets on the floor a little further from the heat. The room seemed stifling up near Blair's face, but the wooden floor was cold under his socks -- too cold for either of them to forego the warmth of the sleeping bag. 

Jason's slow breaths and the snuffling of the baby made a homey counterpoint to the rattling of dishes from the kitchen, but Blair's nerves refused to be soothed. He had messed up in just about every possible way, it seemed, and he couldn't see how to put it right. 

Why the hell was he worried about privacy anyway? It had never seemed to matter before. Blair borrowed Jim's shirts, Jim wandered into the bathroom to shave while Blair was showering -- it had never been anything but a comfortable sort of intimacy. Yet suddenly it seemed like an invasion to know that Jim had been in his room, leafing through his journals. It had felt like a betrayal when Jim read that thesis chapter, even though Blair had planned to get his consent on it before publishing anyway. 

Was it the sex that somehow made it so important to establish separate territory? Or was Jim's own insistence on maintaining an emotional distance beginning to spill over onto Blair? 

Or maybe it was that lingering anger that Blair was still barely aware of, the resentment that had come to life so unexpectedly in the truck last night, in the most pernicious possible way. 

Sighing helplessly, Blair shucked off his sweater and pants and slipped half-dressed under the soft folds of the sleeping bag. He curled on his side and stared at the dancing candle-flame, drowsing slightly but aware of every sound from the kitchen. He made sure he was at the very edge of the blankets' extent, so that Jim would have plenty of room to himself. 

But when Jim came into the room at last, blowing out candles and adding a log to the stove and pulling off his own outer layers, he moved right in under the nylon comforter and settled with his shoulder and hip pressing warmly against Blair's back. He was there, he was not avoiding Blair, he was defiantly unafraid -- and his muscles were tensed up like stone. 

Blair swallowed, wanting to speak but unsure what to say. "Are your hands cold?" 

Jim whuffed a little in surprise and relaxed perceptibly. "Freezing," he admitted. 

"Here." Blair shifted onto his back and pulled the nearest icy hand against his chest. The chill wasn't as important as a chance to help his Sentinel. He would have liked to press Jim's hand against his skin, under the shirt, but he didn't dare. 

Jim froze for a moment, then uncurled his fingers against the cotton of Blair's T-shirt, moving the other hand tentatively to share in the warmth. 

"I'm sorry," Blair whispered. 

"Sandburg . . ." 

"I never meant to hurt you." Blair's throat tightened as his memories of last night gave the lie to his words. He hadn't meant to, perhaps, but that hadn't stopped him from enjoying it. 

" _Blair_. I don't want an apology. You didn't do anything wrong. I just . . . I'd rather not think about it, okay?" 

Blair nodded sadly, pressing his lips tightly closed against a flood of explanations of the benefits of catharsis. 

Jim sighed. "All right. I know you're not going to leave this alone, so I'll tell you -- once. Yes, I was . . . assaulted. It happened about five years ago, when my cover failed and my backup was late. But I don't really remember any of it." 

Blair stiffened. It was hardly surprising, to hear that Jim had suppressed another painful memory, but it seemed strange to hear him admit it so calmly. 

Jim went on, his voice almost inaudible. "I was unconscious at the time, and I only figured out later what had happened. As far as I'm concerned, it might as well have happened to someone else." 

Blair knew denial and disassociation when they were shoved in his face. And he knew they had their purposes, psychologically speaking. But he couldn't help asking, "What about your nightmares?" 

"They aren't really memories. Just . . . guesses, I suppose, of the way it might have happened. Every time I dream about it, it's a little different. The dreams don't really mean anything." Jim was still for a minute. "Anyway, the guys who hurt me are in jail on other charges, and I'm fine. It's over, all in the past, and I don't want to have to deal with it anymore. Okay?" 

"Okay," Blair promised tightly. 

"Good. Can we sleep now?" 

"Yeah." Blair breathed carefully, forcing his body to relax, waiting for the lump in his throat to dissolve. "Jim?" 

"What?" 

Blair hesitated, discarded his first question and picked up another. "You think we'll get out of here tomorrow?" 

"Sure, if the weather holds. I think the sooner the better." 

"How will we get Jason and Trevor down the road?" 

"Chang can ski. Even if he can't hold a pole in that hand, it's all downhill. One of us will carry the kid." 

"I guess that'll work." Blair frowned into the blackness. "Do you think Jason will still be allowed to see Trevor?" 

Jim's shrug translated down his arms into the hands still pressed against Blair's torso, almost like a caress. "I don't know, Chief. He screwed up pretty bad here. Do you really think he deserves to spend time with the kid, after this? Trevor could have died out here." 

"It wasn't really Jason's fault. He couldn't help himself." 

"He could have stayed on his meds. He was given a trust, and he didn't live up to it." Jim's voice was harsh for a moment, then he shook his head lightly against Blair's shoulder. "Anyway, he'll probably have to spend some time in a hospital before they can even discuss visitation. Maybe if he sticks to his medication they can work something out." 

"Maybe. . . . Jim?" 

The Sentinel sighed. "Yeah, what?" 

"Are your hands getting any warmer?" 

"Yeah." 

"That's good." 

"Good night, Sandburg." 

"Yeah. Night, Jim." 

Blair's dreams were fragmentary, brief snatches of memory mixed in with imagination and occasional doses of reality. He heard Jim's voice, deadly soft: "Just want you out of here . . . by the time I get home." He dreamed of the fountain, but somehow it got mixed with the grotto at the temple, and Alex was pushing him down, inviting him to see the eye of God. He twisted unhappily, and the hard wooden floor under his shoulders became the rocky bottom of the grotto/fountain. He opened his eyes, and the impenetrable blackness of the cabin seemed like the void beyond the borders of life. 

Then Jim slung a clumsy arm across his shoulder and mumbled some wordless comfort, and Blair remembered merging in a flash of light. In his dream, that glorious instant was drawn out, and the light was every color of the rainbow, and it was actually him and Jim joining together instead of the wolf and panther, and there was definitely something erotic about it, something very earthy and un-spiritual, but also slow and inexorable, with no particular sense of urgency . . . 

He was dimly aware that every time he changed position, Jim moved with him. On his side or on his back, he always felt Jim's large body pressed close, Jim's hand on his shoulder or chest twitching softly in dreams. And without remembering why, he avoided turning in such a way as to spoon up behind Jim. 

At some point the whimpers of a fretting baby penetrated his brain, and he cracked his eyes to see the cabin gray with twilight. He groaned and tucked his head deeper under the edge of the sleeping bag, seeking more pleasant dreams than the ones that had pursued him most of the night. He felt the chill air against his back as Jim pulled away, and then the quilted bag was tucked close around him and someone was hushing the baby. 

It couldn't have been much later when he finally awoke for real, because the sun was just barely beginning to peep over the trees. He sat up and pushed the tangled hair from his face. The woodstove was crackling briskly, and the cabin was beginning to warm up. A few feet away, Jason curled in a lump on the mattress, staring blankly at nothing. Little Trevor was nowhere in sight, but Jim was audibly puttering in the kitchen. 

Blair pulled on his warmer layers and went to investigate. Jim was mixing something over by the counter, and he glanced up to smile as Blair wandered in. In the clean morning light, his eyes seemed incandescent above the pale blue sweatshirt. Blair had thought of Jim's eyes when he chose the color, but the reality took his breath away. They were like blue fire, like stars in winter, like sapphires capturing a spotlight and refracting it back again. 

Then the moment passed; Jim turned back to his work, oblivious to the lurching of Blair's heart, and the guide looked around for something else to focus on. Trevor met his gaze curiously from the far corner of the kitchen, standing precariously with one fist curled around the leg of a small table. The boy still had on his warm sweater, but his feet and legs were bare. He was chewing half-heartedly on a crust of bread, and peanut butter was smeared liberally across his cheeks. 

"Figured out the diaper thing, huh?" Blair said by way of greeting. 

Jim shrugged. "Wasn't too hard, after I watched you yesterday." 

"How's he doing?" 

Jim glanced over at the toddler. "Seems okay. He has a little bit of a fever. I don't know if that's a good sign -- like a compensation for being so cold yesterday -- or if he's coming down with something. We should probably get him checked out as soon as possible." 

Apparently satisfied that Blair was trustworthy, Trevor launched himself away from the table and tottered up to the student. He held out the slimy crust of bread. 

"Uh, no thanks," Blair said uncertainly. "Peanut butter isn't really my favorite, first thing in the morning." 

Trevor looked at the crust as if surprised to find it in his hand, then cast it away casually. It flew sideways and hit Jim on the shin. With a sigh, the Sentinel picked it up and redirected it toward the trash. 

Blair stifled a laugh. "So, we're heading out soon?" 

Jim looked out the window, calculating. "Yeah. We'll give it a few hours to warm up out there. That should be enough time for us to have breakfast and get packed up." 

"Breakfast?" Blair said doubtfully. 

"Pancakes. Just instant -- I found this mix that only needs water. But I can do them up on the woodstove. The batter seems all right, anyway. There's no syrup, but two different kinds of jam to choose from." 

"Um," Blair said, wishing desperately for a cup of java. "Sounds great. Pancakes. Yeah." He would be glad to get back to civilization, he decided. Roughing it was one thing when they were off on their own for a vacation to get away from it all, but it wasn't so much fun when they came rushing out with no time to prepare or psych themselves up, and they were stuck taking care of a baby and an emotional zombie. 

To his surprise, the pancakes came out quite well. "These are great, Jim!" he mumbled around a mouthful of pancake and apricot jelly. 

"You don't have to sound so surprised, Sandburg," Jim grumbled, cutting a cake into little squares for Trevor. 

"No, I mean it! I thought that pre-mixed stuff would be awful, but these are perfect. Really fluffy." He shoved in another loaded forkful. 

Jim shrugged. "I think it's the altitude. The air is thinner, so of course the pancakes puff up more." 

Blair grinned. "You just can't take a compliment, man." 

Jim glanced over at Jason Chang, now ensconced in the armchair with a plate of untouched pancakes on his lap. "Eat, Chang." 

"I'm not really hungry," Jason mumbled, then added belatedly, "Thanks anyway." 

"Eat! I don't want you collapsing from low blood sugar halfway back to the road." 

Listlessly, Jason carved off a small chunk with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. 

After Jason had been bullied into finishing a whole pancake, and Trevor had added a quantity of grape jelly to the peanut butter on his face, they started packing. Blair wasn't sure how much they should carry away from the stuff that Jason had brought in. Their own packs were heavy enough, and Jason wasn't in shape to carry much. Some of it would have to be left here, to be retrieved by Jason's uncle after the snows had melted. 

Jim brought a huge plastic bag out of the bathroom. "You want to carry the kid or the trash, Sandburg?" 

Blair's eyes widened. "Trash?" 

"We can't leave it here. Can you imagine what these diapers will smell like a few months from now?" 

Blair swallowed against a rush of nausea and looked at the bag. He hated the idea, but really he couldn't smell anything through the plastic. With a sigh, he conceded, "Double-bag it and I'll carry the trash." 

"You sure?" Jim's brows flew up. 

"Yeah. You're better on the skis than I am, and I wouldn't want to risk falling with a baby strapped to my chest. Anyway, I'm sure it smells worse to you than it does to me." 

"Okay, Chief. Thanks." 

Blair busied himself rearranging the packs while Jim got the cabin ready, emptying the cistern and the woodstove. Once their packs were re-organized to include some of the Changs' stuff, Blair sat down and tried to figure out the sling Jason had used to carry Trevor up to the cabin. The straps had to be adjusted a bit to accommodate Jim's broad shoulders, but otherwise the contraption seemed pretty  
straightforward. 

"This thing is cool," he told Jason, trying to include the depressed man in conversation. "Where did you get it?" 

Jason sighed gustily. "I made it." 

Blair studied the collection of straps and webbing with new respect. "Wow. You should try to market this. It's really useful. 

Jason shrugged. "Who would want it?" 

"Almost anyone! Mothers in a lot of primitive tribes make slings to carry their babies, but for some reason those traditions get totally ignored in the US. You could start something new!" 

"Other people have probably tried it before now." 

Blair sighed. There wasn't much use trying to cheer Jason up. "It's a good design anyway, man. You should think about it." 

Jim re-bandaged the cut on Jason's hand, trying to make the dressing secure enough that he could hold a ski pole. Blair helped get the fussing baby strapped to Jim's chest, then shouldered his own pack, with the bag of trash hanging from the bottom. Then they were on their way. 

* * *

Just a day after they had come up to the cabin, the forest seemed like a different world. It wasn't yet ten in the morning, but already the temperature was nearly sixty. Winter was losing its grasp on the mountains at last. The snow was still deep on north-facing slopes, but around the next curve would come a sunny stretch where it went slushy, or even the occasional patch of muddy ground. 

The different textures of the snow were fascinating, and a challenge to ski over safely. Soft powder that was almost as fresh as new gave way to slick re-frozen stuff that offered no purchase for their skis, followed by heavy, half-melted crystals to bog them down. The air was full of the peculiar scent of snow-melt, and the constant simmering crackle of millions of ice crystals collapsing in on themselves. 

Jim could easily have zoned out on the sound alone if he had really let himself listen to it. It was almost tempting to tell Sandburg about the sound -- then Blair would probably insist that he stop and listen to find out if different kinds of snow melted differently. But they had somewhere to get to, and a kidnapper -- however pathetic -- to deliver to the authorities, and there was no time for Sentinel tests, even interesting ones. 

Jim had Blair go down the path first, followed by Chang, while he took up the rear. Technically, Chang was his prisoner, but Jim was confident that he could catch up easily if the man was stupid enough to make a break for it. Aside from Chang's listlessness -- which could, admittedly, be an act -- the man had hardly had a bite to eat, and he was having trouble holding onto his ski pole as well. 

Jim should probably be more concerned about the effect the baby would have on his pursuing abilities. A twenty-five pound weight strapped to his chest and squirming energetically wasn't doing his balance much good. But he'd still rather have the baby than the bag Sandburg was carrying. 

Blair led the way happily enough, treating each new challenge to his rusty skiing skills as a game. He never built up too much speed even on the steeper parts of the path, and he called back cheerful warnings whenever he hit something unexpected. For whatever reason, it seemed his mood had thawed and softened even as the weather had. Jim was glad to see his friend happy, even as part of him tried to be suspicious that the change could reverse itself just as quickly. 

They stopped several times on the way down, partly for Chang's sake and partly because the baby kept trying to escape. At one point, Trevor became frustrated enough with his captivity to begin crying. Sandburg pulled the kid out of the sling, and Jim expected him to start jiggling the baby or making silly noises. Instead, Blair shoved the kid at Chang, who patted the boy reflexively. 

Jim frowned and leaned in toward his partner's ear. "You know, Chief, he's a kidnapper. We shouldn't let him hold that kid even for a few minutes." 

"You let Jason hold him last night." 

"That was to keep them both quiet and in one place, where I could keep track of them." 

Blair shook his head pityingly. "Come on, man, if it makes them both a little happier, where's the harm? Anyway, I wanted to talk to you." 

"Again? _Now_?" Jim glanced toward Chang, calculating how quickly the man could move if he tried to get away with the baby. 

"No! I mean, not like that. Just . . ." Blair puffed out a breath in frustration. "Never mind. It isn't really important." 

"Sandburg. What did you want to say?" 

"Well, I -- just . . . when we get home?" 

"Yeah?" Jim said encouragingly, still watching Chang. 

"I was thinking . . . wondering . . . you think you could give me a hand unpacking?" 

Jim turned to stare at his partner. 

"I mean, I'm not sure where everything is, in those boxes, you know, and . . ." Blair looked nervous. "I could help you with the rest of the furniture, too." 

Jim blinked. "That sounds great, Chief," he said, trying for nonchalant. His heart was going faster than a leisurely morning ski could explain, but Blair had no way of knowing that. 

"And, uh, maybe . . . do you remember which box my journals went in? Because I was thinking maybe we could look over them. Together." 

"Is that what you want?" 

Blair shrugged nervously. "Well . . . there is a lot of stuff about you in there. I don't mean all personal stuff -- there's a lot of notes on Sentinels and, you know, like that. And you should see that stuff. I told you you could see my diss before it's published, and I just thought \-- you know -- you have a right." 

"I'd like that. If you're sure it's okay." 

"I'm sure, man." Blair met his eyes and smiled slowly, like the dawning of the sun. "Definitely." 

He wasn't talking about the journals anymore, that was clear. Jim swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. "Let's hit the road again," he husked, and went to take the baby back from Chang. 

Skiing down the path again, he couldn't help but contrast Blair's happy attention to the world with Chang's slumped shoulders and bowed head. At odd moments of quiet during the last week or so, Jim's thoughts turned to reflection on how he had messed up, how close he had come to losing Blair forever. 

Chang had betrayed the trust that was given to him and lost the treasure that now nestled against Jim's chest. The detective was not inclined to mercy for that idiocy, but a part of him knew exactly what Chang must be feeling right now. How much of his depression was caused, or worsened, by the knowledge that he might never see Trevor again? 

Jim had known the bite of that same fear. He had been careless with his own treasure, and had nearly lost it. Drowning in blind terror at the fountain, waiting at the hospital in dread of the verdict and, later, fear that Blair would never talk to him again -- he had known the weight that oppressed Chang's heart now. 

If someone told Chang that he would get custody of Trevor despite his criminal stupidity, could he be any more amazed and relieved than Jim was at _his_ second chance? 

Could he learn to change his ways, for the sake of the kid? 

Could Jim? 

Lost in thought, Jim almost missed the moment he had been watching for so vigilantly ever since they left the cabin. They were on a steep part of the path less than a quarter of a mile from the road, almost within sight of Chang's abandoned car, when the kidnapper lost his grip on the ski pole, sped up a little too much on a curve, slipped over the edge of the path and disappeared down a steep drop. It wasn't a sheer fall, but it would have been a tricky slope to climb even in the summer, with good boots and firm ground to brace against. In the snow, with skis on, it could be deadly. Chang plunged through the underbrush, branches snapping in his wake. 

Blair, who had been just a few feet in front of Chang, gave a yell and threw himself right off the same damned cliff. 

Jim froze, acutely conscious of the baby on his chest. He couldn't follow \-- couldn't risk it -- couldn't help Blair at all. He couldn't even see much through the curtain of trees and bushes in the way. He could only listen. 

He heard branches cracking where both men had disappeared, a muffled yelp from Blair when something caught him in the face, nylon screaming against ice as Blair leaned an arm back against the slope to slow his progress. With his hearing turned up, Jim easily identified a painful-sounding thump as Chang running into a large tree. A few seconds later, Blair's progress slowed to a stop in a cacophony of breaking twigs; he had landed in a bush instead of a tree. Blair's wail of "Oh, _no_!" rose up, sounding more like simple dismay than outright horror. Chang must not have impaled himself on a branch, then. 

Jim realized belatedly that he was standing at the verge of the path, both arms wrapped around little Trevor, yelling at the top of his lungs. "Sandburg! Sandburg!" He forced himself to stop, surprised that he had been able to hear so much detail over his own shouts and Trevor's crying. He gulped and rubbed the boy's back soothingly. 

"I'm okay, Jim," Blair called up. There were some flailing and fumbling noises. "We're both okay. I just . . . oh, god." 

His voice was eloquent of disgust and nausea, and a moment later the reason reached Jim's nose. The bag of dirty diapers and assorted other household trash had broken open in the descent. The things were probably scattered all over the mountainside by now. Sandburg, good environmentalist that he was, was apparently trying to gather them up and get them into what remained of the bag -- without much success. 

"Take care of yourself, Chief! We'll get the stuff later," Jim yelled down. 

"It's okay, Jim, I got it." Blair's movements stilled, and he puffed in one place for a minute. "I don't think we can get back up there, man!" 

"No shit," Jim murmured, then grimaced as he remembered the little boy. 

"The slope isn't so steep here, and there's a little track. It's not much, but I think it's heading for the road. It goes up, anyway. Why don't you go on down to the road, and we'll see if we can get there on this path." 

Jim swallowed a burst of stubborn denial. He wanted to follow straight after Blair, not meet up with him after who knew what struggles and tribulations. But he wrestled his protectiveness out of the way and called down to his partner, "Okay, we'll try. I'll keep track of you, Chief!" 

Squinting down the steep drop, Jim could just begin to see where it leveled out. Here and there a lost diaper marked the path Blair had plowed in the hillside. A too-brief flash of blue came up from Blair's coat. The grad student was murmuring encouragingly to Chang, getting him to start along the tiny path they had found. It did seem to head in the right direction, and the ravine they had dropped into became shallower up near the road. 

Jim turned down the broader drive that led to his truck and pushed off as quickly as he dared. He could leave Trevor in the truck for a few minutes -- or in Chang's car; he had a baby seat. That would give Jim the freedom to backtrack and make sure his partner was safe. 

No -- no, he couldn't just abandon the kid. That was the whole reason they had come out here, wasn't it? But he had to get to Blair . . . 

When he rounded the last corner and came within sight of Chang's car, it was all moot. He saw the flashing lights first, then the uniforms of the sheriff's deputies. He was just coming to a stop when Serena Chang straightened up from behind the white car. 

He saw it all fly across her face: recognition, astonishment, relief, delight. It surprised him, for a crazy instant, that someone could feel those familiar emotions at recovering a treasure, without having caused its loss in the first place. He had worn guilt around him like a cloak for so long, he'd forgotten that it could be taken off and set aside \-- that there could be happiness _without_ the pain. 

She couldn't get Trevor out of his arms quickly enough. The boy cried out all his misery of the last few days as she held him close. Despite the howls, it was obvious the kid wanted to stay right where he was; he had a stranglehold around Serena's neck. Apparently sometimes the treasure was happy to be recovered, too. 

The deputies' questions about the whereabouts of Jason Chang had barely begun to register with Jim, when he heard a familiar voice. He swung around to see his partner toiling up a slope through the trees. 

His reaction was excessive in the moment, perhaps, but it really had more to do with all that had happened over the last few weeks than with Blair's tumble into the ravine. Jim just stood and stared as Blair emerged from the trees, feeling every emotion that had appeared on Serena's face and then some. He smiled, but his cheeks were chilled with moisture in the morning air. 

Epilogue

Jim stepped out of the elevator at the parking garage level and started to twist out of the way of a person getting on -- then froze as he recognized her scent. He turned back. "Serena?" 

"Oh, Jim! I wasn't expecting to see you here." Serena stepped back from the elevator as the doors closed. "I thought you had some time off." 

Jim sighed. "I just stopped in to grab some stuff I left here, and I must have had eight people tell me I shouldn't be in at all." Actually, he had been trying to get the department to pay for the damage to his truck, but he was having trouble since he had never been assigned to find Trevor. He didn't want to bother Serena with all that. 

She chuckled. "You know no one means you should stay away. But you're overdue for a vacation, aren't you?" 

Jim shrugged. "I took a week not so long ago, but Simon's pushing me to take more." 

"He's right. You've earned it, Jim. And this is as close to a low-crime season as we ever get in Cascade." 

"Yeah . . ." Jim frowned. "What do you mean _we_?" 

Serena shrugged. "I'm thinking of moving back. In fact, that's why I'm here, to talk to the Chief about taking over as Chief of Forensics." 

"That's great, Serena!" 

"Well, if I can get it." She glanced around at the building above them. "The main reason I went to Seattle was for Jason's sake, because he got a great job offer there. Now that's all over. Jason will be in the hospital for a few months a least, and after that . . ." 

Jim nodded in understanding. "It might be good for you to get out of town, get away from him for a while. I'm sure there are plenty of guys around here who'll be glad to hear you're available again." 

"Oh?" Her eyes twinkled. "Like who?" 

"Oh, I seem to remember Dan Wolfe being pretty disappointed when you left." 

She laughed, shaking her head. "I have to get the job first." 

"You will. You're perfect for it." 

"They thought that woman from San Francisco was perfect, too, and she only lasted four months." 

Jim grimaced. "Wells was good at her job, she was just . . . a little flighty. You've got the skills _and_ the maturity to do it right." 

"Jim, don't you know it's a deadly insult to call a woman 'mature?'" 

"Oops. Sorry." He gave an apologetic grimace. "So how's the little guy doing?" 

"He has a cold, but it doesn't seem too bad. The doctor thinks he'll recover just fine. My mother is watching him right now. Jim, I can't thank you enough for finding him. If you had been just a few hours later . . ." Her face nearly crumpled. 

"Hey, hey, it all turned okay, didn't it?" He patted her shoulder uneasily, glancing around in case anyone had witnessed him making a woman cry. 

She forced a smile. "Yeah. I'm sorry, I guess I haven't caught up on all my sleep. I'm still a little too close to the edge." 

"Well, for heaven's sake, don't cry. You'll have mascara all down your face when you talk to the Chief." 

"He'd have to give me a job if I showed up crying at the interview, wouldn't he?" she laughed. 

Jim heard the elevator descending again. "Well, listen, I don't want to make you late. We can talk more _after_ you get the job, right?" 

"Sure. Tell Blair thanks from me, too." 

"I will. He'll be glad to hear you're coming back to Cascade." Jim saw her into the elevator and then headed for his truck, still smiling. 

When he got home, Blair was still out. Probably either at the university checking on his teaching appointment, or doing the grocery shopping he had solemnly promised to get done. Jim had been planning to go for food himself, since the cupboards were almost bare and Sandburg never bought the good stuff anyway, but he had spent the morning getting his truck repaired. He decided to give his partner the benefit of the doubt. 

He dug through the refrigerator and unearthed a can of beer -- a brand that neither he nor Sandburg especially liked, left over from poker night a few months ago. It would have to do. Testing the insipid brew, he wandered into the living room and picked up a tribal mask that was leaning against the couch. Sandburg had gotten unpacked, all right, but that was a long way from getting organized. Jim looked around the room for a good place to hang the mask, found all the wall brackets taken, and set it back down by the couch with a sigh. Leaving the bric-a-brac for Sandburg to worry about, he pressed the button on the blinking answering machine. 

"Blair," said the machine, "this is Sydney Oldham. Sorry I missed you today. Call me as soon as you get this message. I've been talking to a lot of people on your behalf. I wanted you to know right away -- I managed to get you on the payroll as a TA starting with the summer session. But I would really like to see you follow up that wonderful discovery you made in Sierra Verde. I've talked to your dissertation committee, and they all agree that this could be very significant. If you'll agree to teach a six-week survey course starting in July, I believe I can let you have all of June to examine your Olmec temple. The department has some funds you can use for an expedition, provided you take along some undergrads to work with you. If you're up for this, call me right away and we can start making arrangements with the Sierra Verde government." 

There was a pause, then the voice on the machine continued more slowly. "This could be a wonderful career opportunity for you, Blair. It's right in your field of study, and extremely pertinent to your dissertation. If you do the initial study and get a paper out to a journal by the end of the summer, you'll be credited as discoverer no matter who does the eventual detailed work on the temple. That would be Feliz Santiago, probably, but you can get the scoop on him if you start now. I'd like you to consider this suggestion very seriously. Come talk to me about it as soon as you can." 

That was the last message. The machine whirred softly to itself. 

Jim took a swallow of beer. All of June. He knew how Sandburg would have responded to this message a few days ago, but what would he say now? Jim had managed to convince the grad student he was needed -- would he think he couldn't afford to leave Jim alone, even for a month? 

For that matter, Jim wondered, _could_ he hack it on his own for a month? 

Maybe he didn't have to. Maybe he could make this decision a little easier for Blair, right from the start. Simon _had_ been urging him to take a break, after all. 

Why not? 

He picked up the phone and hit a speed dial button. "Simon, it's Jim. Listen, I know the department's manpower is back up now, so I was wondering if I could take some of that vacation time I have coming to me . . ." 

End A Fragile Peace. 

 


End file.
